


One Thousand Nights

by mardisoir



Series: Crush!verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (does that tag fit when it's a modern au??), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, I promise this is a love story, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mild D/s, Multi, Murder, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Other, Past Domestic Violence, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Work, Smut, Trans Character, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 101,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/pseuds/mardisoir
Summary: Montparnasse has always thought of love as a selfish thing. He’s seen what it makes people do, the sins they commit in its name. Love seems to him to be the absolute worst kind of indulgence: the sort that doesn’t cost you anything but could lose you everything.
  ~Patron-Minette’s enfant terrible cares little for romance, but a chance encounter with one of Éponine’s friends threatens to change that. Meanwhile, Claquesous is missing, the Thénardier family can’t stay out of trouble, and Grantaire’s pining appears to be catching.





	1. Chapter 1

“We’re having people over tonight,” Éponine announces, shouldering the front door open and slamming into the apartment like a Doc Marten clad whirlwind.

“Are we,” Montparnasse doesn’t bother to look up from where he’s draped across the one good chair in front of the open window, cigarette in one hand, shoplifted copy of Italian Vogue in the other. “Since when?”

Éponine ducks into the kitchen, hiding furtively behind an armful of shopping. “Ages,” she says breezily, like this isn’t the first time she’s mentioned it. “Cosette asked after the last party at Marius’, it’s not like she can do it at her place.”

“Cosette asked.” Montparnasse waits for Éponine to elaborate and, when she doesn’t, drags himself resentfully out of his perfectly comfortable seat and heads for the kitchen. “This will be another meeting of minds then, I presume? Marius and his merry men?”

“Don’t start,” Éponine, the coward, sticks her head inside the fridge to avoid meeting his eyes. “They’re not that bad. And this is a social event, not a rally.”

It’s hard to look satisfactorily disgusted when wearing a sheet mask which is why, Montparnasse suspects, she waited until now to tell him.

“Who have you invited? Not the blonde dictator, I hope." 

“Yes, Enjolras will be there, and I expect you to behave yourself.” Éponine frowns, rearranging the meagre contents of the vegetable drawer. “R is coming too, and Feuilly and Bahorel. Marius and Cosette, obviously,” Montparnasse rolls his eyes. _Obviously._ “And Jehan.”

“Which one is that,” Montparnasse asks, leaning up against the counter and flicking ash off his cigarette into an abandoned coffee cup. “Hot librarian or glittery hipster?”

“You haven’t met, I don’t think,” Éponine says, unloading wine from a ragged Carrefour shopping bag and snacks from the hidden pockets sewn into the lining of her leather jacket. “They live with Feuilly. Redhead, non-binary, very art-house-y?” He shrugs. “Wears flower crowns un-ironically?”

Montparnasse inadvertently makes a repulsed noise.

“If you can’t be nice you can stay in your bedroom,” Éponine says and raps his knuckles hard with a wooden spoon when he tries to swipe one of the bottles of good rosé. 

As a rule, Montparnasse does his very best to ignore most of Éponine’s friends.

He’s known Cosette the longest, since back when she lived with the Thénardiers. They’d shared the same run down apartment building, gone to the same school, skinned their knees on the same streets. She and Éponine had been inseparable even then, a pair of grubby, shrieking little demons always dogging his heels begging him to teach them how to steal sweets from the tabac and, later, how to correctly apply lipstick. Azelma had trailed along behind them, younger and quieter but no less demanding.

The girls and Gavroche are the closest thing to blood Montparnasse has, but that doesn't mean he doesn’t occasionally want to throttle them.

Cosette’s boyfriend, Marius, overgrown spaniel that he is, Montparnasse finds infinitely irritating. Cosette adores him and, for some godforsaken reason, so does Éponine. It’s painful to watch, not only because Pontmercy is exactly the kind of self-important never been north of the périphérique posh boy that Montparnasse hates.

He knows the girls think he’s unnecessarily cruel in his judgement of Marius, but Montparnasse can’t shake his first impression of the arrogant rich kid slumming it with people below his station. He doesn’t trust people like that and he’s not about to go around being nice to them.

The worst thing about Marius is that he comes as part of a group. You can’t have one without the rest, apparently, and his group of friends buzz around the edges of their lives like flies.

Montparnasse has known Feuilly almost as long as Éponine and the others. They’re not close, not any more, but they get along in the way that people who grew up together do.

Bahorel he met later. You can’t drink regularly in any of the bars in the 11th arrondissement and not end up being aggressively befriended by Bahorel at some point. It’s inevitable, like death and taxes. Not that Montparnasse would know anything about the latter.

He’d never admit it to his face, but Montparnasse likes cynical sharp-tongued Grantaire the best. When he’s not being a melancholy asshole, that is. Éponine introduced them years ago, and she still claims it was the worst mistake she’s ever made in her entire life.

The rest of them though, the ones Montparnasse has met, he could take or leave them. They are an excitable and easily roused bunch and Montparnasse is not renowned for his restraint, something that has caused friction in the past. With certain people more than others.

Still, the drinks will be free and, embarrassingly enough, he has no other plans for the evening.

When Éponine turns to put something in the top cupboards he snatches the bottle of wine up and heads off find something to wear, ignoring the violent stream of swearing that follows him.

~

The party gets off to a shaky start.

Éponine had vetoed inviting any of Montparnasse’s friends. “I don’t want Bizarro and Enjolras in a room together, ever,” she’d said, and Montparnasse had to admit he could see her point.

Gueulemer had claimed to be busy anyway and with Claquesous vanished to fuck knows where Montparnasse resigns himself to an evening sorely lacking in decent company.

Cosette and the puppy arrive early, it’s barely gone seven when the door buzzes.

Montparnasse is reclined on Éponine’s bed watching in bemused silence as she fusses over her outfit. She’s changed three times already and actually asked for his opinion, which she hasn’t done since they were scruffy underage teenagers trying to sneak into clubs.

If he didn’t know better Montparnasse would say she’s nervous, but that’s absurd. Éponine doesn’t get nervous.

“Go get the door,” she orders, smoothing her skirt down and Montparnasse rolls his eyes.

“Oui votre altesse,” he says and ducks the comb she throws at him as he goes.

Cosette wraps him in a tight embrace when he opens the door, pressing a bottle of wine into his hand and two lipsticky kisses to his cheeks despite knowing how much he hates scrubbing the stuff off because she is, as ever, a little shit. 

“Where’s Éponine?” she asks breathlessly and disappears off to find her when he gestures vaguely towards her bedroom, leaving Marius Pontmercy hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hello,” he says stiffly and Montparnasse barely resists the urge to slam the door shut in his face.

“Do please come in,” he says instead, sweeping a sarcastic bow before retreating to the kitchen to rattle glasses and plates around pointedly.

Pontmercy perches on the edge of their ancient, sagging couch until the girls reappear, arm in arm and speaking in rapid whispers.

For lack of anything better to do, Montparnasse pours drinks and empties chips into bowls.

In the other room Cosette and Éponine are having a complex conversation in Looks behind Marius’ oblivious back while he fiddles with Cosette’s laptop, making party playlists.

Montparnasse peers over his shoulder when he brings the snacks through.

“Don’t even think about it,” Cosette says, just as he’s about to suggest that they add some music that’s actually good to the mix.

Marius looks up and jumps at the sight of Montparnasse looming over him.

“Perfume Genius is not chill party music,” Éponine adds.

“Philistines.” Montparnasse shakes his head. “Learning is a very chill album.”

“Jehan likes Perfume Genius,” Marius says and blinks when everyone looks at him. “What? They do.”

The door buzzes again and Montparnasse takes the welcome opportunity to escape making stilted conversation about people he doesn’t know or care about by going to answer it.

Bahorel sweeps him into a crushing hug the minute he does. “Hey man,” he smiles. “It’s been too long!”

“I saw you last weekend.” Montparnasse pats Bahorel on the shoulder and carefully extracts himself.

“You did?” Bahorel looks puzzled, “Did I see you?”

“Only briefly,” Montparnasse allows. “You were pretty distracted by the guy who kept trying to snatch your friend’s cane.”

“Joly,” Bahorel nods. “Joly’s amazing. You should have come and had a drink with us.”

“I would have,” Montparnasse says, “but you got kicked out for punching that guy right after I arrived.”

“Ah,” Bahorel shrugs. “Yeah, that sounds likely. Who else is here?”

He breezes through into the other room and Montparnasse is just pushing the door shut when a hand catches it and shoves it back open.

“Éponine, did you know your neighbour- oh.” Enjolras frowns at Montparnasse.

“Good evening Enjolras.” Montparnasse has found that being aggressively polite is the best approach when dealing with the unofficial leader of Éponine and Cosette’s friend group. Manners cost nothing, as Babet likes to say, and this way no one can complain that he’s anything but civil.

Also it really, really pisses Enjolras off.

“Montparnasse.” Enjolras greets him tightly.

“You met Enzo from downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Did he try to sell you shit?”

“He offered me discount if I went with him to his flat.” Enjolras looks vaguely unnerved at the prospect.

“Mm, I wouldn’t recommend taking him up on that,” Montparnasse says with a sunny smile.

“What-”

“Don’t worry about it. Can I get you a drink? Take your coat, perhaps?”

Enjolras clenches his teeth until his jaw clicks and Montparnasse fights back a villainous cackle.

“Parnasse!” Éponine yells from the other room. “Stop being a dick. Enjolras, get in here.”

Enjolras shoulders past him and Montparnasse shuts the door with a smirk. 

The evening progresses tolerably well.

Bahorel brought more food, leftovers from the deli where he works, and Montparnasse slinks around the edges of the room ignoring Éponine’s glares as he steals the best of the canapés.

Feuilly arrives and Enjolras immediately engages him in a dreadfully boring conversation about labour laws, which keeps them both distracted when Grantaire shows up twenty minutes later, anxious and already half-drunk.

Montparnasse drags him into the kitchen before he can settle down for a long night of gazing longingly at Enjolras and they share a cigarette like naughty school children, keeping lookout around the corner of the doorframe for Cosette.

“Smoke free house parties,” Grantaire shakes his head not looking up from the bottle of wine he’s trying to open. “What’s next?”

“Alcohol free house parties,” Montparnasse suggests, stealing the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and taking a drag.

“Heavens forfend.” Grantaire crosses himself with the bottle opener.

“You’re Jewish, darling.”

Grantaire squints at him from under a tangle of dark curls. “What’s your point?”

Cosette appears like a wraith in the doorway and quick as a flash Montparnasse flicks the cigarette into the sink full of dirty dish water.

“Parnasse,” she widens her eyes in dramatic disappointment. “You promised.”

“R made me do it,” Montparnasse says and Grantaire elbows him in the stomach deliberately as he finally pulls the broken cork free from the bottle.

“Come back in and socialise,” Cosette demands and hurries them away before they can even get glasses down from the shelves.

They sit on the floor and pass the bottle back and forth instead and Montparnasse drapes himself suggestively over Grantaire when he notices Enjolras watching them.

“Where’s Prouvaire?” Bahorel asks, slinging a casually possessive arm around Feuilly’s shoulders.

“They’re going to be late.”   
  
Feuilly leans into the touch and _oh_ , Montparnasse thinks. That’s an interesting development.

Enjolras finally tears his eyes from where Grantaire is carelessly toying with the belt loop on Montparnasse’s jeans. “Do they know how to get here?”

“Jehan’s a perfectly capable adult,” Grantaire says. “They only got lost last time because there was a very distracting cat. Could’ve happened to anyone.”

Enjolras scowls at them both. “I just thought, with your neighbour-”

“Enzo’s harmless,” Éponine reassures him. “If Jehan bumps into him they’ll probably end up getting high and talking philosophy for six hours, don’t worry about it.”

Grantaire leans his head on Montparnasse’s shoulder and he reaches up, calculatingly nonchalant, to tug on one loose dark curl where it brushes his cheek.

“Fine,” Enjolras says shortly. “Forget it.”

Feuilly clears his throat and quietly asks about the upcoming sit-in for unwed single mothers or something equally insipid and peace is momentarily restored.

Things are going well. At least no one’s broken any furniture or been grievously injured yet, which makes it step up from the parties he and Éponine used to throw.

Grantaire is flicking through Cosette’s playlist, Feuilly and Enjolras are still talking amongst themselves, Bahorel and Marius are working their way through an enormous bowl of baba ghanoush and Éponine is weaving little braids into Cosette’s hair.

It’s all so very wholesome.  Montparnasse slips out of the room to go smoke a cigarette.

He’s only gone for around five minutes but when he gets back the mood has changed.

It’s not hard to see why, Enjolras is sitting uncomfortably straight in his seat, arms folded and brow furrowed as he addresses his argument to Grantaire who is still sprawled carelessly on the floor.

“But that’s not relevant if sex work is alienated labour-” Enjolras is saying.

“What else would you call it?” Grantaire interjects

“-because sex workers bodies are exploited by capital, just as all workers are exploited by capital.”

“That’s a grotesquely moralist stance to take.”

“Not when the body counts as a tool of labour.”

Grantaire scoffs.

“Are all your meetings like this?” Montparnasse leans his elbows on the back of the couch to ask Bahorel.

“What, the verbal sparring as foreplay?” Bahorel grins, “Pretty much.”

Montparnasse isn’t touching that with a ten foot pole.

“No,” he says, loud enough that his voice will carry. “I meant the people sitting around theorising about shit they know nothing about.”

The various conversations trail off as Enjolras and Grantaire look around at him.

“If you have something to add-” Enjolras starts to say.

“Who me?” Montparnasse blinks. “Well, gosh, I don’t know. I mean, I never even went to high school and those were some pretty big words.”

Enjolras visibly bites back a reply and Éponine leans over Feuilly to squeeze Montparnasse’s elbow in warning.

“I wouldn’t want to pass moral judgement over a situation I’ve never been in, after all. That would be rather presumptuous of me, don’t you think?” 

Enjolras goes pink across his cheekbones and Montparnasse rolls his eyes internally when Grantaire clears his throat and sits up abruptly, folding his arms around his knees.

It’s not embarrassment that makes Enjolras blush like that, it’s anger. For Grantaire, that’s practically a conditioned response.

“I didn’t intend to-” Enjolras starts again.

“Unless of course,” Montparnasse talks across him, “you’re speaking from experience?” He smiles lasciviously at Enjolras. “Don’t be shy, we’re all friends here. Who among us hasn’t sucked a few cocks for rent money befo-” he’s cut off with a choked sound as a tiny fist grabs the back of his shirt and pulls.

“That is quite enough of that,” Cosette says firmly, dragging him out of the room. 

“Ah, shit! Cosette, let go.” Montparnasse nearly trips as he tries to walk hunched over to accommodate her considerably shorter height. “You’re stretching it!”

Cosette walks them into the kitchen, shakes him by the scruff like a badly behaved kitten and glares. “That was rude.”

“Oh, what, it’s fine for them to talk about it but not me? That’s a double standard right there, suppressing the voices of the disenfranchised, erasing the-”

“Tais-toi.” Cosette lets go of him and leans against the kitchen counter with a sigh.

In the other room someone, probably Bahorel, turns the music up.

“How do you not constantly want to smack them when they talk like that?” Montparnasse asks, tapping a cigarette out of the pack in his jeans pocket.

Cosette kicks the kitchen door closed and steals the pack out of his hand. “I do a lot of yoga,” she says around the cigarette clenched in her teeth, gesturing for Montparnasse to hand over his lighter.

“Are you alright?” he asks belatedly as he passes it to her. The flame makes the subtle gold glitter in Cosette’s baby pink manicure flash and she leaves a faint ring of peach on the end of the filter when she exhales. Montparnasse has a sudden memory of her at eight years old, wearing sticky strawberry lip gloss and chewing on cheap candy cigarettes.

“I’m fine,” Cosette says, and the skinny kid with crooked teeth and bruised knees he remembers seems worlds apart from the girl in front of him. 

“What’s going on with you and Ponine?”

“What do you mean?” Cosette widens her eyes and affects bewilderment. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Please. You know that doesn’t work on me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cosette says, dropping the naïve act.

“Mm, I do though.”

“Do you really want to know?” Cosette asks, tilting her head so her hair falls across her narrow shoulders. 

“Probably not.” Montparnasse sighs.

“Cosette, are you ok?” Marius calls from the hallway.

Cosette takes a long drag on her cigarette, cherry sparking, and then flicks it in a perfect arc into the sink where it bobs amongst the soap scum alongside Montparnasse’s from earlier.

“Just a minute!” She turns to Montparnasse, “Are you going to play nicely with the other children?”

He snorts. “No.”

Cosette purses her lips.

“Go back to your party, petite alouette,” Montparnasse teases, tugging on a strand of her hair.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Cosette?” Marius calls again, closer this time. Montparnasse waves her away and she frowns but goes, leaving him alone.

He smokes slowly, listening with half an ear as the argument picks up again in the next room, the lilting cadence of Grantaire’s drunken rambling unmistakable and familiar.

Montparnasse stubs his cigarette out and retreats to his bedroom.

~

Éponine and Montparnasse’s apartment might be small, it might be cold in the winter and a sweat box in the summer, they may have to climb four flights of narrow, treacherous stairs to reach their floor and their landlord might be (certainly is) a slumlord, but Montparnasse forgives all that easily when the rewards are so great. 

Before they’d found this place Montparnasse spent years sleeping on floors, on couches, in bathtubs. Most of Patron-Minette has tripped over him curled up beneath their coffee tables or propped up against their kitchen cabinets at one time or another. Before that, before Babet, in the summer he slept on benches, under bridges, in the back of bars. In the winter he’d climb through Éponine’s window, help her barricade the door shut and they’d sleep in a pile of sticky, bony children. Éponine kicked, Azelma snored and Cosette clung with sharp little nails but he’d still slept better there than anywhere else. 

When Éponine left home, fifteen and furious and sick to death of her family, they’d squatted for a while. A long line of buildings with no heat, no locks, no running water. The kids would come stay with them sometimes, when home wasn’t safe for them. With Cosette adopted away and Éponine only coming around when their parents were out, life was harder for Azelma and Gavroche. Éponine didn’t like them to hang around too much though and Montparnasse had to admit it didn’t feel right seeing them amongst the broken windows and rubbish, skipping over used needles and empty bottles like they were cracks in the pavement. 

One particularly cold January Éponine had caught a cold that she couldn’t shake, it turned into a chest infection and then to pneumonia. She’d been sicker than he’d ever seen her, sicker than he’d thought a person could get without dying. They’d made a pact after that, to find somewhere proper to live. 

The first few places had been tiny studios, damp and cramped. Éponine had worked three jobs and Montparnasse had called in every favour he could to find something better.

This place isn't perfect but it’s cheap because Babet knows the landlord. And there are, at least, separate bedrooms.

Montparnasse loves his bedroom fiercely for the sheer novelty of having space that is his own, that no one can enter without permission. It’s small, Éponine has the larger one. There’s space for one bookcase, a couple of rails for clothes, a nightstand and the bed.

The bed takes up most of the room, shoved into the corner beneath the large window. Montparnasse would fight to the death to keep his bed, he's never slept on anything so comfortable. He drapes it in the most luxurious bedding he can steal: Egyptian cotton, silk and satin, flannel worn soft and warm. 

The rest of the room is mostly bare apart from the books. There are a couple of photos, some of Gavroche’s drawings, a few mementos pinned to the walls. Montparnasse still isn’t used to owning things, keeping things that aren’t temporary.

When he shuts his bedroom door the party noise is mercifully silenced. There’s a headache building behind his eyes, so instead of turning on the bare overhead bulb he lights the candles scattered across the bedside table and windowsill. 

Underneath his pillow his phone buzzes a message alert tone. Montparnasse flops onto the bed and opens the text, it’s from Gueulemer.

_have u heard anything??_

_no_ he texts back _nothing new_

No one has heard from Claquesous for nearly three weeks.

That wouldn’t have been a big deal once. Claquesous has always been as skittish and evasive as a stray cat. He’d slunk around the edges of anything that could count as friendship for years, hovered on the outskirts of their lives without letting anyone get close to him.

Montparnasse still doesn’t really know anything about his life before he’d turned up one morning, skinny and bruised with a split lip and a blank expression, sitting at Babet’s kitchen table eyeing the bowl of hot chocolate in front of him like it might sit up and bite him. He’d been fifteen then, a year older than Montparnasse. 

Even now Claquesous doesn’t trust easily. He moves a lot, rarely stays in one apartment longer than a few months, goes through burner phones and numbers at a disturbing rate and, more often than not, gives out fake names. He’s disappeared on them before, but not recently. Not like this, with no clues to follow, no reassurance that he’s safe.

Gueulemer had been the one to notice, weeks ago, when none of his calls were picking up and his texts went unanswered. He’s always been a worrier, but as time went on it was harder to brush off his concerns, harder to just shrug and say that Claquesous would resurface when he felt safe.

They’d gone looking, tentatively at first, always wary of respecting his need for solitude, then more seriously. Montparnasse had quietly put the word out, but what they’d learned hadn’t been that comforting.

Glorieux hasn’t seen him, neither has Brujon or Mardisoir. Homère and Laveuve offered to swing by his apartment, but Montparnasse knows Claquesous has moved at least once since he lived at the address they had for him.

Gueulemer texts again _, me & Biz asked around & hes not locked up _

Something heavy settles in Montparnasse’s chest. If he’s not been arrested, even if he’s laying low, someone should have seen or spoken to him by now.

_you ok?_ he asks.

_not rly_ Gueulemer replies.

Montparnasse scrubs at his burning eyes, goes to light the last cigarette out of the pack in his pocket but it’s empty. He scrunches it up and throws it on the nightstand.

Claquesous hasn’t answered his phone or replied to any messages since he’s been gone, but Montparnasse can’t shake the habit of texting him anyway.

_where the fuck are you_ he sends him now, _you better not be dead you asshole._

Montparnasse kicks his jeans and socks off and switches his shirt- the collar annoyingly stretched out, thank you Cosette- for one he sleeps in sometimes. It’s black, sleeveless and cut very low at the sides, almost down to the waistband, but the cotton is wonderfully soft.

Since he’s out of cigarettes Montparnasse sifts through the junk in his nightstand drawer for the pouch of tobacco he’s sure is in there, left behind by Claquesous the last time he was over. He finds it underneath a strip of condoms and a pair of baby pink brass knuckles, a gift from Bizarro.

When he opens it a baggy of weed falls out and Montparnasse laughs to himself.

_i’m smoking your shit_ he sends to Claquesous, _come stop me._

He rolls a small skin joint and lets the gentle buzz float his headache away, laying back on his bed watching the flicker of light from the candles play across the ceiling.

Montparnasse drifts for a while, warm and comfortable, the thump of bass notes thrumming through the walls keeping him from slipping all the way into sleep.

Eventually his distracting cotton-mouth rouses him from his half-doze. Montparnasse rolls off the bed and stretches until his shoulders pop. Outside his bedroom the music is still going, he hears Bahorel laugh and the bathroom door shut.

Montparnasse is desperately thirsty and, besides his foggy head, depressingly sober considering it’s- he checks his phone again- half past eleven on a Friday night.

When he sticks his head cautiously out of his bedroom the door to the main room is closed and there’s no one around, so Montparnasse wanders through to the kitchen without bothering to put any clothes back on. It’s his apartment, anyway. He can drift around in his underwear if he pleases.

He fills a glass from the tap and drinks deeply, the water pure and cold on his parched throat.

The fridge is running low on supplies. Montparnasse picks through Bahorel’s craft beers and decides he’d rather drink the dish water, cigarette butts and all.

Somewhere in this kitchen, Éponine has stashed an expensive bottle of Bordeaux. Montparnasse frowns and turns a slow circle, eyeing the options.

_If I was five foot six inches of vindictive spite and good hair,_ Montparnasse says to himself, _where would I hide the wine?_

His eyes catch on the top cabinet above the sink that’s usually filled with useless cleaning supplies and the one cassole dish they never use.

_There._

Montparnasse is tall, but the cupboard is taller. Éponine must have stood on a chair, he thinks, the determined little minx. Stashing booze in unusual places is a habit she can’t quite break, although these days it’s so Montparnasse won’t make off with the best of it and not in the vain hope that if her parents can’t find it they won’t be able to drink it.

Montparnasse climbs onto the counter and gets up on his knees, reaching up to open the cabinet door. He wrinkles his nose at the cobwebs that drift out and peers at the dusty shelves. The cassole is near the back, behind a stack of stained dish towels. The lid is askew like someone has hidden something inside it that’s slightly too big.

Montparnasse leans forward, balanced precariously on his knees with one hand hanging tightly onto the cupboard door. He knocks the lid aside and flails around in the dark, searching for what he’s sure is there.

His fingers have just closed around the neck of the bottle when someone gasps quietly behind him.

Montparnasse pauses, conscious of the flex of his thighs, the arch of his back, the gape of his shirt where it’s hanging open at his sides. There is a fleeting moment where he wishes he’d put his jeans back on, but it’s too late for regrets now.

Montparnasse grabs the bottle and hops carefully back down off the counter, takes a brief second to unhook his shirt where it’s caught on the barbell in his right nipple, and turns.

“Oh.” The most beautiful person he’s ever seen is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hello,” Montparnasse says.

This must be Jehan, he thinks, the non-binary flower crown wearer. There’s no flower crown today, their hair is pulled into a messy braid tied off with a ribbon and they’re tugging distractedly on the end of it.

Barefoot on the kitchen tile, they’re roughly the same height as Éponine. Their hair is longer though, a deep shade of red that can only be natural.

Montparnasse is not usually rendered speechless by pretty faces but he’d admit that in the moment, words seem to be eluding him. He lets himself look, lingering on their wide hazel eyes, the freckles across the bridge of their nose.

When they turn their head to glance back at the other room the low light catches and refracts off their cheekbones, a streak of gold glitter shining there like stardust.

“Sorry,” Jehan says, and some deeply unhelpful part of Montparnasse’s brain points out that they have a lovely voice. “I just had to step out for a minute.”

Drifting through from the other room, clashing terribly with Cosette’s weird indie playlist, Montparnasse realises he can hear the sound of another argument.

“-laissez-faire anarcho-capitalist _bullshit!_ ” Enjolras’ dulcet tones ring out over the peppy strains of Studio Killers. Grantaire laughs maniacally and Montparnasse wrinkles his nose, there’s no chance that will end well.

“Can’t say I blame you,” he says.

“I didn’t know you were in here.” Jehan doesn’t seem to know where to look, the hand not twisting strands of titian hair around slender fingers is plucking at the hem of their jumper. “I can go?”

“No, don’t,” the words come out too fast and Montparnasse forces himself to slouch back against the counter in a deliberately louche manner to make up for it. His prize bumps against the cabinets with a clunk and thinking quickly he brandishes it at the attractive stranger blushing prettily next to his fridge. “Would you like a drink?”

In the next room glass shatters, Bahorel yelps and Éponine swears.

“Perhaps somewhere a little quieter?”

~

Jehan Prouvaire is a poet, Montparnasse learns, by the time the bottle of wine has run dry. 

They’d been shy at first, perching on the edge of his bed with their legs tucked under them, glass cupped carefully in both hands. While the drink worked to ease the stiff set of their shoulders Montparnasse had sat beside them at a polite distance and worked tirelessly to do the rest, shaking off the dazed stupor that had settled over him when he’d first set eyes on Jehan and slipping charm on like a well-fitted jacket.

Jehan is gorgeous and only becomes more so as they slowly begin to relax. The blush doesn’t go anywhere to Montparnasse’s delight, it only deepens as they drift into tipsiness. They sink back against the heap of pillows at the head of the bed, tongue loosened and spilling out beautiful tangles of words.

Their hands are expressive when they speak, orchestrating symphonies that hang in the air like stars. Montparnasse is hypnotised by those hands, fiddling absentmindedly with the trim of a pillow, running through their hair, long fingers casting shadows in the dim light. He wants to take their fingers in his mouth, press kisses to palms and delicate wrist bones.

Jehan seems blissfully unaware of his preoccupation, tilting their glass to finish the last of their drink. The long line of their throat is almost obscene, when a drop of wine escapes and slides down their chin Montparnasse takes a long minute to curse himself for remaining in his underwear.

Then he pulls a pillow into his lap and uses it to balance his tobacco and papers on while he rolls a joint, casual, like that was the point.

“You have an interesting collection here,” Jehan says, leaning over the edge of the bed to thumb through the stack of books piled up on the floor. Their jumper rides up when they reach down, the fabric riding up over the curve of their hip.

Montparnasse focuses on the grinder he's holding so he won't give in to the urge to reach out and slide his hand over the crest of their hipbone, down over the soft swell of their stomach and under the waistband of their jeans.

“Genet?” Jehan says, sitting back up with an extremely battered paperback in one hand.

Montparnasse shakes himself and smiles. “An old favourite.”

The first time Claquesous had named him Notre Dame, Montparnasse had thought he’d been talking about the church.

Claquesous had been sleeping on Babet’s couch for a few months at that point and the two of them were still feeling each other out, Claquesous silently testing boundaries and Montparnasse trying to find a way to relate to this strange changeling boy.

After no small amount of mocking laughter on Claquesous’ part, he’d rifled through the tiny rucksack containing all his worldly possessions and slapped the same paperback Jehan held now into his hand.

“Read it,” he’d said. “You might like it.”

Montparnasse had dropped out of school after Sixième, there was no one to make him go and by that point he’d figured out more profitable ways to spend his time.

School had been a terrible drag, too many rules, too much sitting still, too many other children to argue and compete with and Montparnasse always seemed to be found wanting, unable to measure up. He was small for his age, poor as dirt, foul mouthed with a violent temper. He’d raged against the other children, the teachers, anyone he could pick a fight with, really.

No one had been sorry to see the back of him.

Literature, as Montparnasse knew it, was dry and boring. He’d regarded this book with suspicion verging on hostility, but Babet had asked him to try and get along with Claquesous and Montparnasse would do anything Babet asked of him. Even if that meant reading.

He read the book, cover to cover, in three days. Then he’d gone and found Claquesous and thrown it at him.

“Va te faire enculer,” he’d snapped and Claquesous had laughed again. 

“But did you like it?” he asked, and Montparnasse couldn’t lie. He had. He’d loved it. It had been like reading scripture, his life poured out onto pages in a language only he’d known, that no living person had ever spoken to him before. These words, these people, this _Paris_ , this was the world he lived in.

That Montparnasse had enjoyed reading at all had been something of a surprise, but more than anything he’d been furious that there were books like this out there and no one had bothered to _tell_ him.

He’d tried to read the classics, to see if what he’d been missing in school somehow made sense now, but more often than not he tossed them aside, frustrated. Montparnasse was searching for words that spoke to him like the voice of god, desperate to recreate that first soaring feeling of recognition. 

He’d found them, eventually, through perseverance and recommendations from Claquesous and Babet. He still couldn’t do complicated calculations or remember anything about science, but he was relatively well read.

“Quite formative for a fourteen year old, n'est-ce pas?” Jehan quirks an eyebrow.

“It was the first thing I ever read that felt real to me,” Montparnasse says, half expecting them to laugh. But they don’t, they just nod, eyes wide, like they understand exactly what he means.

“That’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it?” Jehan says. “I want to write like that. Something true. Something that speaks by opening up the spaces in your heart and your head and inviting people in to see if their insides match your own.”

Montparnasse imagines that inside Jehan Prouvaire is something close to heaven.

“It’s flattering, anyway,” they continue.

“Flattering?”

“The comparison,” Jehan sets the book aside. “They beatified you.”

“And what an optimistic future he painted for me in doing so.” Montparnasse leans his head on his hand and smiles.

“Sainthood?”

“Death by execution.”

“Ah,” Jehan nods, like that’s a mere detail.

“What about you?”

“I don’t think I’ve sinned enough yet to be a saint,” Jehan muses, “perhaps I’m doomed to be a martyr.”

The candle light plays on their hair, reflects the shimmer on their cheeks and Montparnasse thinks they’d make a perfect martyr, beautiful in death. He pictures them painted like a pre-raphaelite in rich golds and greens, loose hair a crimson river shining like blood on a bed of flowers, their sweet face exalted and pained.

“You don’t sound too disappointed at the thought.” 

“I suppose it depends what I was martyred for.” Jehan gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling. “When I was young my grandmother had an illustrated book of hours that had all the saints and martyrs in it. It’s terribly gory and romantic, Catholic imagery,” they smile. “I liked Saint Dymphna the best, she was painted with her head struck from her body. Saint Sebastian, too, was quite provocative.”

“With the arrows?”

“Mm,” the blush is back. “Jeanne d’Arc was my favourite though.”

“Jehan d’Arc,” Montparnasse says, amused.

“I wanted to be her.” Jehan pulls the ribbon out of their hair and starts picking apart their ruined braid. “I insisted on growing my hair out and then cutting it into an awful bob. It was not at all flattering.” 

Montparnasse can’t drag their eyes away from those thin fingers, glitter polished nails combing through red-gold locks.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Jehan asks, sweeping their hair back over their shoulders. “Your greatest sin?”

_Don’t you know who I am?_ Montparnasse wants to ask. But either they do and they’re braver than he thought, or they don’t. And he doesn’t want them to leave yet.

“I worked at The Kooples once, for a whole month. It was hell. Retail is an abomination against god.”

That’s not a lie, either, although he’d got the job under false pretences using a fake name and at the end of the month he’d walked out knowing he had stolen the entire Fall line, which made it almost worth it.

Jehan laughs. “I didn’t mean worst for you.”

Montparnasse knows what they meant. It's not a conversation he’s willing to have yet. Or ever.

“Do you believe in god?” Jehan asks.

“I believe in saints,” Montparnasse says, “and martyrs.”

Jehan smiles and scoots further down against the pillows, their hair fanned out behind them. Montparnasse wants to drink wine from the valley of their collarbones, sink his teeth into their soft throat.

“My foster father used to say I had the devil in me,” Montparnasse says, and he must be more drunk than he thought because that’s not something he’s told anyone before. Not Éponine, not Gueulemer or Claquesous or Babet. No one. “Which was ironic,” he continues, because he’s started now and he might as well, “since he was the actual living personification of evil.”

Jehan doesn’t ask anything or offer an apology. They don’t say anything at all, although their eyes go liquid and sad and they reach across the bed to squeeze Montparnasse’s hand where it rests on the covers.

“Do you want to know my greatest sin?”

“Desperately,” Montparnasse grins. He can’t imagine what this divine creature considers sinful but he’s eager to find out.

“When I was thirteen,” Jehan begins, “I attended an exclusive boarding school for the wealthy well-to-do children of ex-patriots, politicians and bourgeoisie bastards. It was an old fashioned institution that required all students to wear a uniform. I was unhappy with the restrictions on self expression that this meant, and so I… _customised_ mine somewhat. Well. If I was unhappy with their uniform, they were _most_ displeased with mine and threatened to throw me out on my ass if I didn’t stick to the proper, un-embellished dress code. And so I did. I procured for myself what they described as the ‘girls uniform’ complete with pleated skirt and darling knee socks and I wore it with pride.”

Montparnasse thinks he might expire right there and then.

“I was following the rules,” Jehan continues. “I didn’t alter the uniform one bit. I may have rolled the skirt up slightly, but everyone did that. At any rate, they didn’t take kindly to my version of following the rules, so they expelled me.”

“Getting expelled for wearing a skirt?” Montparnasse forces himself to ask casually, “That’s your greatest sin?”

“Ah, no,” Jehan ducks their head to hide a smile. “My greatest sin was sneaking back onto the school grounds and setting fire to the principal’s office.”

Later Montparnasse will think this is the exact instant that he fell wildly in love.

“Arson?”

“I didn’t expect it to spread so quickly,” Jehan says, sounding somewhere between chagrined and thrilled. “It was a very old building.”

“Did you get caught?”

“No,” Jehan says. “And I never told anyone before, either.”

“Ok,” Montparnasse says. “I have one final very important question.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you keep the uniform?”

Jehan flushes and laughs into their hands. “I did,” they say, peering out from behind their fingers.

Montparnasse is going to fucking _die_. “Interesting,” he manages to say.

The party music cuts out, startling in its sudden absence. Without the quiet background noise the sound of raised voices is inescapable.

“I hate when they fight,” Jehan says quietly, frowning at Montparnasse’s bedroom door.

Montparnasse wonders if he needs to go out there and do something, if they’re this caught up in it they’re not going to calm down and stop on their own. He’d much rather stay here though, he thinks, watching Jehan chew anxiously on one glittery nail.

Hopefully one of the others will step in so he doesn’t have to. Sooner rather than later. Cosette still goes nonverbal and vacant when people fight around her, and Éponine-

Another voice joins the fight, higher pitched and furious. Montparnasse winces. Too late.

The front door slams and Jehan flinches.

“Enjolras,” they mutter under their breath. There’s a brief second of quiet before it slams again.

“R,” Montparnasse says, setting the pillow aside and tucking the joint behind his ear.

He’s sat on the far side of the bed near the wall and when he leans on the windowsill he can see the street below and the corner where the door to their building joins it. Enjolras is lit up beneath a streetlight, like the tragic lead in a mediocre play taking the spotlight. Montparnasse wonders how he does it.

When he looks over his shoulder Jehan is watching curiously so he reaches out and takes hold of their hand, pulls them over to join him. They have to kneel behind him to see, close enough to Montparnasse’s back that he can feel them breathing. It’s distracting.

He turns back to the street in time to see Grantaire saunter out of the front door.

It’s too far to hear what they’re saying but the gist is clear. Enjolras with eyes narrowed, spitting fire, battering at the ostensibly impenetrable walls of Grantaire’s indifference.

Jehan rests the point of their chin on Montparnasse’s shoulder, their hair brushes his cheek.

In the street below Enjolras flings his arms up in disgust and storms away. Grantaire collapses back against the wall and watches him go, stricken, like he’s taking all the light in the world with him.

Jehan makes a little unhappy sound and Montparnasse can’t help turning towards them. Their faces are close enough that their cheeks brush, Jehan’s eyes are rich and warm in the half light.

“Sorry,” they whisper and shift back across the bed. Montparnasse could slap himself.

Jehan picks up another book from the pile beside the bed and flicks through it, deliberately not looking up. “I just wish those two could work things out,” they say, pausing on a page and glancing at Montparnasse through a veil of loose copper hair.

“I think everyone wishes that,” Montparnasse says. He might not be Enjolras’ biggest fan, but watching Grantaire pine is torturous.

Jehan offers him a tiny smile and looks back at the book. It’s a ragged paperback copy of Crush, the pages worn and faded from repeated readings and Montparnasse forces a self-effacing smile because Jehan is an actual _poet_ and while he doesn’t _do_ embarrassment he can’t help but wish he’d left some fucking Rimbaud or Baudelaire there, anything less horribly revealing. More horribly revealing than even Notre Dame des Fleurs had been, anyway.

“I’m something of a cliché you’ll find, I’m afraid,” he says and Jehan tilts their head to look at him. Looks through him.

“I don’t believe in clichés,” they say deliberately. “How many times through history has a person looked at the sky or the sea or a rose and thought: ‘that’s beautiful’? These things don’t lose their meaning, their worth, for being appreciated. Words and thoughts and concepts shouldn’t either. We’re all just trying to express ourselves the best we can, to connect with something that makes us feel. If we find something that speaks to our souls, why care if it also spoke to a thousand people before us?”

Montparnasse doesn’t have an answer to that.

Jehan’s eyelashes are pale, he notices, burnished in the candlelight. They’re not wearing any makeup besides the glitter on their cheeks, but the wine has stained their lips like crushed berries.

“Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us,” Jehan reads, the words dripping from that red mouth like honey.

“These, our bodies,” Montparnasse quotes, “possessed by light,” and the heat in Jehan’s eyes when they look at him is a revelation. He feels half feral, drunk on more than wine, electrified by the strange crackling energy that fills the space between them.

Jehan looks away first, the moment broken, and Montparnasse plucks the joint from behind his ear, suddenly desperate for something to temper the mood.

“Do you mind?” he asks and Jehan smiles, shakes their head.

In the pocket of his jeans, crumpled at the foot of the bed, there is a lighter. Instead of reaching down to fish it out, Montparnasse leans across Jehan and lights the joint on a sputtering candle set on the bedside table.

He wonders if the same flickering shadows that turn the angles of Jehan’s face into something fey and unearthly are half as flattering when cast across his own. The return of that delicious blush seems to indicate they might be.

Montparnasse pulls back slowly and settles down closer than he was before, head propped up on one hand. The smoke coils in his chest and he tilts his chin up, breathes out a slow tumble of blue that wreathes around his face and dissipates slowly like sweet scented mist.

“Pythia,” Jehan murmurs dreamily.

“Hm?”

“Oh,” the blush deepens. “Pythia was an oracle at Delphi who saw visions in smoke.”

“More Greeks,” Montparnasse raises a lazy eyebrow. “Tell me, what does your little group get up to that requires such in-depth knowledge of ancient mythology? Are you off each Thursday hosting bacchanals and pushing bougie brats down ravines?”

Jehan shoots him an amused look, “We’re an activist group, not Classics students.”

Montparnasse studies them from under heavy eyelids. “Someone should tell R.”

Jehan hides a smile behind their hand. Montparnasse offers them the joint.

“Ah,” they duck their head and look at him through their lashes. “I’m not very good at smoking,” they admit. “I used to have asthma and I never got the hang of it. I like edibles, though,” they smile.

It’s a bad idea. The last thing he wants to do is give the beautiful, interesting person currently _in his bed_ an asthma attack.

And yet, Montparnasse finds himself unable to resist the urge to say, “I might have a way around that.”

“So I just have to breathe in?” Jehan asks once he’s explained the basics.

“Just breathe,” Montparnasse nods and lifts the joint to his lips, watches Jehan’s throat move as they swallow.

He inhales slowly and drops the joint in the ashtray on the windowsill. Then he pushes up onto his knees and crawls the short distance to where Jehan is curled against the head of the bed, propped up on silk pillows. They pull their legs out of the way and Montparnasse settles on his knees in front of them.

Jehan looks at him as he leans down, one hand braced against the bed frame for balance. With the other Montparnasse reaches out to carefully cup Jehan’s face. He thumbs open their mouth, sliding over their plush bottom lip and dipping into the wine-wet warmth inside. Heat spreads across freckled cheeks beneath his fingers and Montparnasse leans in closer, lips parting to hover over Jehan’s.

Jehan reaches up to hold onto Montparnasse’s shoulder and the feel of their cool fingers slipping beneath the sleeve of his shirt, such a simple point of contact, is somehow more overwhelming than he would have expected.

Montparnasse breathes out steadily as Jehan breathes in, their eyes locked for a long minute.

Jehan closes their mouth to hold the smoke in and their lips brush. It sets something shuddering beneath Montparnasse’s ribs, sends dry lightning up his spine.

This close he can smell Jehan, under the cloying smoke is the sweetness of something floral. He tilts his head, ghosts his lips across the corner of their mouth, the curve of their neck, the tip of his nose brushing the wisps of hair above their ear. Jasmine, he thinks. They smell like jasmine.

Jehan exhales and the air around them fills with plumes of white. Montparnasse doesn’t pull away and Jehan’s hand tightens on his shoulder, the other reaching up to cover his own where it still cups the side of their face.

Beneath Montparnasse’s fingers, in the vulnerable hollow under their jaw, Jehan’s heart races.

Montparnasse strokes the pad of his thumb over their lower lip again and Jehan’s breath stutters, warm against his skin. The hand on his shoulder slides up to cup the back of his neck and Jehan gently turns his face to theirs, shivering when his eyelashes brush their cheekbone.

“Tu es phosphore,” Jehan whispers, “a match waiting to be struck.”

_If I am a match_ , Montparnasse thinks, caught in the amber of their eyes, _you are the flame_.

Jehan kisses him.

Montparnasse has wanted this since the second he laid eyes on them, whatever part of him not hopelessly caught on the words they speak wondering how the lips that form them would feel against his own.

They’re just as soft as he’d hoped they would be.   
  
Jehan tastes like altars, incense and bitter wine. They kiss deep and slow and Montparnasse wants to be closer, wants to feel every inch of them against himself, skin to skin.  He pulls back to say as much but Jehan’s already moving like they can hear what he’s thinking, like he’s projecting his wants through the hazy air straight into their mind.

Jehan wriggles until they’re laying further down the bed, Montparnasse’s hips cradled between their thighs. He leans over them, elbows braced either side of their head so he can dip down and press wet, open mouthed kisses to that lush mouth, drag his lips over their pulse point and down to their clavicle, the barest scrape of teeth drawing a soft gasp he can feel vibrating through their throat.

Jehan tugs gently on his hair, drags his mouth back to meet theirs and Montparnasse slides a hand down their side, easing their knee up until they wrap their legs around his waist.   
  
They’re pressed so close together Montparnasse imagines Jehan can feel the blood rushing through his chest, the desire singing in his veins. Montparnasse settles more of his weight against Jehan and they moan into the kiss, tightening their fingers in his hair sending up little sparks of pleasure-pain across his scalp.

He gives in to the urge to slide one hand under their jumper. Jehan’s skin is like silk under his callused fingertips, and so warm. When he fits his fingers against their ribcage they push up into it greedily. They feel unbearably fragile beneath his touch, like he’s reaching through the cage of their bones to cup their heart in his hands.

Jehan’s hips rock up against his own clumsily, messily, like they can’t help themself and Montparnasse groans, the drag of denim against cotton almost overwhelming. He feels like he’s burning, the fog of lust and wine and weed making his head swim and his skin prickle. Jehan is cool water, is gasoline, slaking his thirst and setting the pyre blazing higher and higher.

When Montparnasse tightens his fingers on their hip and grinds against them Jehan’s languorous mouth turns fierce, but for all their intensity the kisses stay unhurried, almost lazy.

Montparnasse has kissed a lot of people but it’s never felt like this before, like being consumed by something equal parts vicious and achingly tender.

“Jehan?” the door opens and Feuilly appears in a blaze of too-bright light. “What are y- oh no.”

Montparnasse reluctantly pulls away to glare at the intrusion but finds himself instead distracted by how utterly ravished Jehan looks, swollen lipped and breathing heavily, that blush creeping down their neck and over their collar bones.

“No,” Feuilly says again. “Absolutely not. Come on Jehan, we’re leaving.” He catches Jehan by the forearm and tugs. Jehan pouts and their hands tighten on Montparnasse’s shoulders but Feuilly is unrelenting, like a terrier Montparnasse thinks unflatteringly.

“Why are we leaving?” Jehan asks and Montparnasse tries not to squirm too obviously at how wrecked their voice sounds.

“It’s late,” Feuilly says, fixing Montparnasse with a dark look as he makes absolutely no move towards helping Jehan extract themself from the tangle of limbs they’d so eagerly made of each other.

“I don’t want to go,” Jehan says, eyes lingering on Montparnasse’s lips.

“You’re more than welcome to stay here with me,” he offers with a smile.

“Yeah, no. I don’t think so.” Feuilly gives one last heave and Jehan stumbles off the bed leaving Montparnasse feeling oddly bereft without the warmth of them pressed up against him, raw, as though Jehan took a layer of skin with them when they pulled away.

“Say goodnight to Montparnasse, Jehan,” Feuilly says, not relinquishing his grip on their arm for even a second.

“Goodnight Montparnasse,” Jehan says with a coy little smile and the sound of his name falling from their lips sends a shiver through Montparnasse’s whole body.

“Ugh,” Feuilly makes a face and Montparnasse catches one last glimpse of Jehan’s lust-dark eyes and halo of mussed hair before the door slams shut behind them. He sprawls back onto the bed with a groan, licking his lips to chase the taste of their mouth. His eyes drift shut and he smiles.

“Goodnight Jehan.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you told me in September that the first fic I'd write in literally ten years would be for Les Mis, I would have laughed you out of the room.
> 
> The poem Jehan and Montparnasse read is [Scheherazade](https://penusa.org/blogs/mark-program/poem-week-scheherazade-richard-siken) by Richard Siken.
> 
> Translations:  
> Oui votre altesse - Yes your Highness  
> Tais-toi - be quiet  
> Sixième - 6th grade/year seven  
> Va te faire enculer - go fuck yourself  
> n'est-ce pas? - isn't it?  
> Notre Dame des Fleurs - Our Lady of the Flowers  
> Tu es phosphore - You are phosphorus
> 
> Additional warnings may be added in the notes for each chapter as we go, updates hopefully weekly although with the holidays coming up that may change. Find me [on tumblr](http://www.mardisoir.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

When Montparnasse drags himself out of bed the next morning, lured by the smell of coffee and food cooking, he’s not expecting to run into Marius Pontmercy exiting the bathroom looking blissfully sleep rumpled. 

“Morning,” Montparnasse drawls. He takes a fleeting moment to hope they didn’t make Éponine sleep on the couch so they could fuck in her bed. Cosette might be oblivious to her best friend’s feelings for her boyfriend, but she’s not rude.

Marius blushes to the tips of his ears and scuttles away and Montparnasse drifts off into a memory of Jehan’s flushed cheeks. He’s not entirely convinced that last night actually happened, that they weren’t something he’d dreamt up in an intoxicated stupor.

In the kitchen he finds Éponine cooking breakfast, looking not furious and hurt as he expected but light and happy in a way he hasn’t seen her for years. 

“Good morning!” Cosette trills from her seat on the counter. She’s beaming at him and swinging her legs. Éponine is also blushing. 

Montparnasse decides he categorically does not want to know and needs to leave before they try to tell him. 

He pours himself a large bowl of coffee and heads off to survey the carnage of the other room, where he finds surprisingly little party debris besides the puddle of hungover Grantaire tucked under a blanket on the couch. 

Marius has claimed the good chair and seems to be trying to disappear into it through a combination of osmosis and embarrassment. He’s wearing Éponine’s ratty silk dressing gown, it’s a surprisingly good look for him.

Montparnasse picks Grantaire’s feet up and settles down on the couch, tucking them back into his lap and sipping his coffee.

“I hear you made out with Jehan,” the mess of curls and regret masquerading as Grantaire says from beneath a cushion.

“Good news travels fast.” Montparnasse leans the points of his elbows into Grantaire’s leg until he kicks at him. “I guess everyone got lucky last night,” he adds, just to make Marius blush again.

A bitter laugh breaks off into a coughing fit and Grantaire’s head and shoulders emerge from his nest of shame.

“Not everyone,” he mutters and steals Montparnasse’s coffee. He looks sad, so Montparnasse lets him.

“Are they single?” he asks, squeezing Grantaire’s ankle comfortingly.

“Do you normally wait until after you’ve kissed someone to find out if they’re single?” Marius pipes up, making this roughly the third time ever he’s willingly engaged Montparnasse in conversation.

Since Montparnasse is trying very hard not to think about whatever might have brought on this sudden surge of self-confidence, he simply looks at Marius and says, “Naturally.”

“Jehan is a really good person,” Marius continues, puppy eyes wide and earnest. “You shouldn’t- they don’t deserve to be-” he gestures helplessly and Éponine swoops in to rescue him, perching on the arm of his chair and fixing Montparnasse with a look.

“Don’t fuck around with Jehan,” she says succinctly and Marius smiles up at her like she personally invented language. 

“I was not-” 

“Parnasse.” Cosette appears silently and leans over his shoulder, pressing a fresh cup of coffee into his hands. “Do not fuck around with Jehan.” She’s had that look perfected since she was six years old, he has no defences against it and usually she always gets her way. 

But Montparnasse is still reeling from the memory of Jehan’s lips, the way their body fit against his, their laugh. He looks over at Grantaire, who shrugs.

“Can’t say you weren’t warned.”

Montparnasse has a reputation.

It’s not exactly undeserved, is the thing, he’s just never really cared about it before.

“Prouvaire’s a hopeless romantic,” Grantaire tells him later, when the other three have disappeared into Éponine’s bedroom to do things that Montparnasse is still refusing to acknowledge. “Everyone knows that. And they’re the youngest of all of us, apart from Cosette. We’re protective, I suppose.”

Montparnasse considers pointing out that he’s only a year older than Cosette, but decides it’s not worth it. People always forget he’s as young as he is, he’s used to it.

They’re sitting on the narrow windowsill smoking, Montparnasse had offered what was left of Claquesous’ weed when Grantaire started making noises about drinking away his lingering hangover. 

It was a generous move on his part and Grantaire had eyed him suspiciously until he’d asked about Jehan, and then he’d laughed.

“Wow, you are not subtle.”

Montparnasse has never wanted to be subtle in his life. He is, by design, explicit or invisible. Subtlety gets you nowhere.

Grantaire’s looking at him with a strange expression he can’t quite place.

“It’s been a while since you’ve seemed interested in someone,” he says eventually.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes and shrugs, stealing the joint from Grantaire’s slack fingers. 

There’s a reason Grantaire is his favourite and it’s not just his acerbic wit. They’ve fallen into bed together on and off over the years, more ‘off’ lately since their last stint of being very ‘on’.

Montparnasse has thought at times that if Grantaire were not so hopelessly in love with someone else, they might have made a go of it together. But ultimately they’re better off as friends, they see each other too clearly to ever be able to make a romantic relationship work.

“You’re not going to warn me away?” he asks and that strange look shifts into something that could almost be described as fond.

“Actually,” Grantaire says, bumping their shoulders together with a grin, “I think the two of you could be good for each other.”

Montparnasse and Grantaire raid the kitchen, seeking out the leftover snacks from the previous night. Grantaire’s mood seems much improved as his lingering hangover and post-Enjolras-fight blues fade, he smirks indulgently as Montparnasse steers the conversation in ever tightening circles back to Jehan.

“Oh man,” Grantaire laughs in between bites of Cosette’s favourite disgusting vegan cheese. “Courf is going to flip his shit.”

“Which one is Courf?” Montparnasse asks, fishing a cigarette out of a crumpled packet he’s found stashed behind some cereal boxes.

“Marius’s flatmate?” 

Montparnasse looks up from lighting his cigarette on the gas hob and frowns. “The kid with the Hufflepuff pyjamas? That guy?”

“ _Kid_ ,” Grantaire snorts. “He’s older than you. Also, he was there when you went to speak to Marius about dating Cosette.”

Montparnasse goes still. “Ah.” 

Not his finest hour, admittedly.

“He said you made Pontmercy cry,” Grantaire says with exaggerated disapproval.

“Not on purpose,” Montparnasse mutters. “That was just a bonus.”

“Cosette really laid into you for that, huh,” Grantaire teases. “You gonna try again now that those three are… doing whatever the hell it is they’re doing in there?” He waves vaguely towards Éponine’s room and Montparnasse gags.

“Stop reminding me. And no, I learned my lesson last time thank you. Besides, Éponine would eviscerate me.”

“True,” Grantaire nods sagely. “Very true.”

“It’s not that I don’t think Cosette is more than capable of looking out for herself,” Montparnasse isn’t used to justifying his actions, usually he just does his thing and if people don’t like it that’s their problem. “I mean, I literally taught her everything she knows.”

“Not sure Ép would agree,” Grantaire interjects and Montparnasse sniffs.

“Either way,” he waves a dismissive hand, “she’s family.” 

_We look after our own_ , he doesn’t add, because too often he hears it in someone else’s voice.

Grantaire’s watching him with soft eyes again. “Who’re you going to threaten when Marius becomes family too?” he asks, the bastard.

“I’m sure I’ll think of someone,” Montparnasse says through gritted teeth.   
  
Grantaire leaves a little while after that and Montparnasse drifts aimlessly through the apartment which suddenly feels cavernous and empty. When he passes Éponine’s room he can hear music playing and the quiet murmur of voices through the closed door.

He heads for the bathroom, turns the shower up as hot as it will go, which isn’t very, and ducks under the spray. The water pressure is shitty as always and Éponine’s been using his fancy vanilla and clove shower gel, the bottle is too light when he picks it up. He can’t bring himself to work up any annoyance about it though, it’s not like he paid for it.

Montparnasse washes his hair, conditions it, lingers under the warm water. His head’s swimming, still buzzed. He drags a lazy palm across his chest, thumbs over a nipple, trails down the curve of his hip. Last night, after Feuilly had dragged Jehan away, he’d touched himself thinking of them.

He could still _taste_ them and when he rolled over to bury his head in the pillows they smelled of smoke and the scent of Jehan’s hair. Montparnasse felt lit up from within, every inch of him burning and desperately, achingly hard. He’d shoved a hand into his boxers and rutted against the bed, it hadn’t taken more than a minute before he’d shuddered and gasped and come with their name on his lips. 

His cock twitches at the memory and Montparnasse slides his fingers down over the plane of his stomach to take himself in hand. If Jehan had stayed, what would have happened?

Beautiful Jehan, luminous as a pearl with eyes like fire. God, how he wanted to touch them.

He thinks about sliding both hands under their jumper, slipping it off over their head. Last night his fingers had brushed against the silky edge of something lacy and Montparnasse’s breath catches at the thought of Jehan in just their lingerie, something gauzy and gossamer-thin, their peaked nipples flushed under the sheer fabric.

They had moaned so prettily when he dragged his lips over their throat, what would they sound like if he put his mouth there? Damp and hot over the filmy fabric, would they like it if he used his teeth or would they want it wet and gentle?

Jehan had shivered under his hands, rolling their hips against him like a wave. Montparnasse would have them draped in velvet, garnished in flowers, laid out on his bed like an offering to be devoured. 

Jehan in his lap, thighs spread, chest flushed, one strap slipping off a freckled shoulder, their hair loose around them as they rode him slowly, pink lips parted as they moaned his name-

Montparnasse comes with a choked off gasp and leans his head against his arm to catch his breath, letting the shower wash him clean.

 _Jehan’s a really good person_ Marius had said. The _and you’re not_ remained unspoken, but he’d heard it anyway.

Montparnasse shuts off the water, grabs a towel from the rail to dry his hair. The mirror’s steamed up, his reflection blurry and indistinct, a streak of darkness against silver. He wraps the towel around his waist, leans against the sink. With one hand he wipes the condensation away.

Montparnasse meets his own eyes in the mirror. They’re bloodshot, the red making them all the more green. His hair hangs across his forehead in a dark wave, he combs his fingers through it, scrapes it back. When he’s stoned the angles of his face seem to stand out in sharp relief: the bow of his lips, his cheekbones, the arch of his eyebrows.

Montparnasse examines himself critically, tilts his head so the dim bathroom light flashes over the thin scars on his neck and chest. He leans back, sucks his cheeks in, gives his reflection a sultry look.

At least he’s still pretty.

He gives himself a mental shake. Fuck Pontmercy and his judgement. This is why he doesn’t get high anymore, it makes him too fucking morose. 

The sun is just sinking down behind rooftops when Montparnasse draws the curtains in his bedroom. His phone flashes where it sits discarded on the bed: one new message. It’s from Babet, a street name and an assignment in half an hours time. Montparnasse drags last nights jeans on, flips through his rail of shirts for something black.

In the other room Cosette and Éponine are curled together on the couch watching a film, Marius is nowhere to be seen. 

Éponine frowns when he sits on the arm of the seat to pull on his boots, rubs the top of her head absentmindedly against his thigh. “You going out?”

“Yeah.”

Cosette leans over to squeeze his fingers. “Be careful,” she says.

Montparnasse squeezes back and stands, shrugs his jacket on.

“I always am,” he lies with a smile.  
  
~

The streetlights are just flickering to life when Montparnasse makes his way up Gueulemer’s street, sipping on a bubble tea.

Gueulemer is waiting outside for him, perched on the back of a bench like an oversized gargoyle. “You’re late.”

“When you tell me to meet you at quarter to, I know that actually means on the hour. You people think you’re clever with your little jabs about my punctuality but I see straight through you.”

“And you’re in a mood,” Gueulemer sighs. “What happened? Party suck as much as you thought it would?”  
  
Montparnasse bites down viciously on a tapioca pearl. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gueulemer’s eyebrows shoot up. “That bad?”

“It’s complicated,” Montparnasse says, thinking about Jehan’s eyes glowing like embers in the dark of his bedroom, Cosette and Éponine making soppy love-struck faces at each other in the kitchen, Marius fucking Pontmercy in a robe patterned with yellow roses trying to give him a come-to-Jesus talk.

“Fair enough,” Gueulemer hops down from the bench. “You wanna go menace some shitheads into paying what they owe us?”

“Literally always.”

The men they’re going to meet owe Babet money, an outstanding protection payment to Patron-Minette. They’re small time wannabe gangsters, would-be dealers headed up by a man named Lapointe who had been selling shitty meth to teenagers before Babet had stepped in. It’s the kind of run of the mill basic shit that Babet usually doesn’t bother them with, but she’s been going easy on them lately.

Neither of them want to talk about why.

When they reach the meeting place no one’s there and Gueulemer curses creatively in a bastardised mix of Arabic, Hebrew and Verlan.

“Those fuckers,” he growls. “I’m really not in the mood for this shit.”

While Gueulemer texts furiously, Montparnasse chews on his straw and drifts into a daydream of Jehan slowly setting alight to a book of matches, dragging the pink head of each matchstick across the striking strip until they spark and flare to life, tiny points of flickering gold in the dark.

Gueulemer scowls at his phone. “They want to meet somewhere else.”

Montparnasse shrugs and pushes away from the wall, “Lay on, MacBuff.”

“This doesn’t seem weird to you?” Gueulemer asks when they arrive at the empty office block Lapointe directed them to. There’s construction work going on, metal framework of scaffolding crawling up the face of the building and sheets of plastic flapping ominously in the breeze like loose skin.

“Weirder than that time in the sewers?” Montparnasse asks, chucking his empty tea in an overflowing skip.

“…good point.”

Which is how they walk straight into a laughably avoidable trap, complete with goons armed with bats and crowbars.

~

When he was younger Montparnasse used to believe that if he just lay still enough he could cheat his body into not hurting.

The trick was in relaxing his muscles and breathing shallowly until he floated, somewhere between awake and asleep, alive and dead.

One time he actually thought he’d managed it- tucked into the tiny cramped space beneath his bed, eyes screwed shut against the dust, heartbeat pounding in his ears drowning out the shouting from the next room- he thought he’d finally achieved mind over matter and turned off the pain receptors in his brain that had been screaming at him that his arm was broken.

Turns out he’d just passed out a little bit. It’s never really worked, but it’s a hard habit to break.

The ceiling of the shitty building they’re in is made up of cheap styrofoam tiles, the kind that you can stick a pencil in if you throw it hard enough. They’re watermarked and stained.

One of the stains looks like a rabbit.

Montparnasse glares at the rabbit tile from his current position, laid out on his back on the equally stained and gross carpet.

Gueulemer’s face swims into view, frowning down at him.

“You alive?”

Montparnasse grunts.

“Gonna get up anytime soon?”

“No.”

Gueulemer sighs. “Fine. Pretty sure you’re laying in dead guy piss, but suit yourself.”

Montparnasse knows a manipulation tactic when he hears one, but he still props himself slowly up on his elbows.

“Are your ribs broken?”

“Just bruised, I think.”  
  
“You sure?” Gueulemer crouches down next to him and tugs on the hem of his t-shirt. “They hit you pretty fucking hard.”  
  
Montparnasse smacks his hands away and winces when the movement sends bolts of agony through his chest.

“I can still breathe,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Fucking baseball bat.” Gueulemer scowls over at the crumpled body slumped in the corner of the room. “Who the fuck does that.”  
  
“Right?” Montparnasse pushes himself up until he’s sitting, breathing slowly through the pain. “Just shoot me, it’d be quicker.”

Gueulemer flicks him in the forehead, “Chas v’chalila.”

“Great, thanks, hit me when I’m down.”

Gueulemer stands and scrubs a hand over his head with a sigh. “Who’s calling this in?” 

“Not it,” Montparnasse groans, grabbing Gueulemer’s forearm to pull himself to his feet.  
  
“I’ll take Babet if you call Brujon,” Gueulemer offers as a compromise.

“Are you still pissed at him?”

“I loved that car, man. You know I did. And that _connard_ -”

“I know, I know, he crashed your baby.”

“When will I ever be able to afford to buy another car? Never. She was my one and only.”

“To be fair to him that’s, like, at _least_ fifty percent on the lépou.”  
  
Gueulemer spits on the ground.

“Go call Babet,” Montparnasse says, sitting down in an abandoned computer chair that wobbles precariously on it’s two remaining wheels.

He calls Brujon, who laughs uproariously when he hears they got jumped and promises to be there as soon as he finishes dinner. Montparnasse hangs up on him as Gueulemer slinks back into the room.

“How angry was she?”

Gueulemer shrugs.  
  
Montparnasse sighs. “Great.”

Brujon shows up with a half eaten pizza in a box which he guards covetously, smacking Montparnasse on the back of the head with it when he tries to steal a slice.

“You better not have got grease in my hair, enfoiré.”

Brujon lets out a low whistle and shakes his head, “Regarde ce foutu bordel. How’d you two idiots manage to fuck up a simple pick up?”

Gueulemer glares at him. “Obviously it wasn’t a simple pick up,” he snaps. “They were waiting for us, this was an ambush.”

Brujon hums, “You think they were waiting to get the two of you alone?”

Gueulemer flinches and Montparnasse shoots a warning look at Brujon, he’d hoped no one else would have picked up on that little detail.  
  
“It doesn’t mean-” Montparnasse starts to say, but Gueulemer storms out of the room before he can finish.  
  
Montparnasse glares Brujon. “Thanks for that.”  
  
“Still nothing?” Brujon asks, looking contrite.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“What happened here then?” he nudges a body over onto it’s back with his boot.  
  
“What always happens, they decided they didn’t want to pay.”

“So you butchered them?”

“They started it,” Montparnasse mutters inanely.  
  
“Boss lady won’t like that.”  
  
“Boss lady does not like any of this,” Babet says from the doorway, cold eyes sweeping over the carnage. “This is not how we do things,” she says, voice heavy with disapproval. “Does this look low profile to you, Montparnasse?”

Babet gestures at the dead men, the blood spray on the walls, the broken glass.

Montparnasse shrugs. It’s hard not to revert to sulky silence when Babet is unhappy with him.

“Call Homère,” she tells Brujon. “The three of you can clean up this mess. Where is Gueulemer?”

Montparnasse points towards the hallway and Babet nods, stepping carefully around congealing puddles of blood in her heels.

“Come on then kid,” Brujon sighs, “let’s shift these fuckers.”

The throbbing pain in Montparnasse’s ribs worsens as he works with Brujon to clean up. He spends fifteen minutes cursing the idiot who decided to hold this meeting on the top floor of an empty office building with no elevators and another fifteen cursing himself for not immediately picking up on how incredibly suspect that was in the first damn place.

Then he swears expansively at Homère for being late with the van and leaving them stood around in a darkened parking lot with three corpses rolled in plastic sheeting when anyone could drive past and see them.

By the time the place is scrubbed down to Babet’s exacting standards his back aches, his chest feels tight all the way up to his throat and he’s equal parts furious and exhausted.

Montparnasse leaves Brujon and Homère bickering over the blood stained carpet, Brujon wants to cut the whole thing out, Homère thinks it’s a waste of time, and heads for the grotty toilets they passed on the stairs.

The fluorescent lighting casts unflattering shadows across his face, he looks gaunt and sick. Montparnasse pulls his shirt up and twists to look in the cracked mirror. The bruises slowly forming on his ribs are splashes of ugly puce and rouge. Nothing feels broken when he presses gently, but it still hurts like hell.   
  
“You should put ice on those,” Babet says quietly from behind him. Montparnasse lets his shirt drop and turns to face her.

“I’m fine.”

Babet gives him a scathing look.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, wincing at how short he sounds.  
  
“For lying?”  
  
“For,” he gestures vaguely. “The mess.”

The day Montparnasse met Babet for the first time he’d been fighting with his foster brother. 

Alain was the oldest child in the household and the only one who was an adoptee and not just a foster, something he never failed to lord above the other children who drifted in and out of their lives.

While not related by blood he’d still managed to inherit his father’s glowing personality. He was short tempered, whiny and easily provoked- something Montparnasse couldn't help but take advantage of any time he was feeling particularly bored.

Today’s argument had come about over a stale, slightly squashed single packaged petite madeleine cake Montparnasse had found when he was going through the cupboards in the kitchen. He’d snatched it up instantly, but hadn’t been fast enough to hide it from Alain who promptly decided that the cake should go to him.

“Give it to me!”

Montparnasse stood on the couch, enjoying the minor height advantage it gave him, and waved the snack above his head. “No.”

“My father paid for it, I have more right to it than you do you little bastard!”  
  
Montparnasse laughed. “Just ‘cause your mother married him doesn’t mean he’s your father. You’re just as much a bastard as I am.”  
  
Alain lunged. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

The front door slammed.

Both boys froze instantly. Like rabbits in the headlights of an oncoming truck they went still and silent, waiting. 

 _“Lucien!”_  
  
Montparnasse bolted.

Heart in his throat he scrambled across the arm of the couch and down the hall heading for the relative safety of the bathroom, the only door with a lock.

As he skidded into the hallway Alain overtook him, slipping past him into the room and slamming the door shut. Montparnasse crashed into the doorframe and banged on the door with a clenched fist.

“Let me in!” he hissed, looking over his shoulder.

“No way.”  
  
“Lucien you fucking brat! Get out here!”

Montparnasse fled the hallway, ducking into the shared bedroom and shutting the door quietly behind him. Footsteps thumped down the hall and Montparnasse stared around in a panic, looking for a place to hide. The space beneath the bed was too small for him to fit in since his last growth spurt. The closet was too obvious. He was trapped.

Outside the bathroom door rattled.

“Are you in there, you little shit?”

“Non, Papa. C’est moi,” Alain whimpered.

Montparnasse ran to the window. He wrenched it open and pulled himself up, balancing carefully on the frame. The room had no balcony, but the neighbours one floor down to the left did.

It wasn’t that far of a drop, he told himself, he’d fallen off taller walls. Never mind that they were three stories in the air.

Carefully he crouched on the sill and pulled the window shut behind him. His legs were too short reach the railings of the balcony, he’d have to jump.

Behind him the door to the bedroom slammed open just as he threw himself across the gap.

Montparnasse hit the railings hard, knocking the breath from his lungs and almost losing his grip. His feet scrabbled helplessly and his fingers tightened around cold metal as he hauled himself up and over.

Montparnasse collapsed against the wall of the balcony, pressed his spine hard against the cold concrete. The neighbour’s washing, hung over the railings to dry, shielded him from view, the damp fabric cool against the back of his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut, prayed that he’d not been seen.

The wind picked up and it started to drizzle. Montparnasse shivered and wrapped his arms around his knees. He sat there for a long time. Slowly his pounding heart began to calm, his breathing slowed. Eventually Montparnasse risked pushing himself up to peer between the railings, to see how far he’d have to climb to get down.

It was a long way. 

Behind him, the balcony door opened.

A teenage girl stood in the doorway, an empty washing basket in her hands. Montparnasse stared, caught.

The girl said something in a language Montparnasse didn’t understand, her dark eyes wide and confused.

“Who are you?” she asked, this time in accented French. “What are you doing?”

Montparnasse didn’t answer. He wondered if he could push her out of the way and escape through her apartment. It wouldn’t be safe at Éponine’s, surely he’d be looked for there. But he could get outside, find somewhere tucked out of sight to sleep tonight until things calmed down.

“Parlez-vous Français?” the girl asked.

Montparnasse nodded.

“Pass me those things, please,” she said, pointing at the washing.

Montparnasse stared at her.

“It’s raining,” the girl frowned. “I need to bring them inside.”

Montparnasse stood up on shaky legs and picked the clothes off the railings.

“Give them to me,” the girl said and he passed them over.

“Thank you. Come inside,” she waved him in.

Montparnasse hesitated on the threshold and the girl frowned at him again.

“You are letting the cold air in.”  
  
Montparnasse stepped inside, peeling off his wet socks and shoving them in the pocket of his trousers. He hovered by the door, wondering if he should make a break for it.  
  
“What happened to your face?” the girl asked, hanging the washing over a wire frame set up near a plugged in space heater. It was warm in the apartment, Montparnasse noted. Warmer than their place ever got.  
  
“Can’t you speak?”  
  
“Yes,” Montparnasse said, “I can talk.”

“Why don’t you answer then? It’s rude.” 

“Sorry.”

The girl crossed her arms and gave him the most intense head to toe stare Montparnasse had ever been subject to in his life. It was like being stripped naked and then x-rayed in front of a crowd of people.

“Why were you on my balcony?” 

“I was hiding,” Montparnasse confessed, startled into honesty. He expected more questions, but the girl just looked at him.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Lu-” he paused, pictured his foster father pacing the hallways screaming his name.“Montparnasse.”  
  
“Like the cemetery?”  
  
Montparnasse nodded.  
  
“Gamila Babet,” the girl said.

“Nice to meet you?”

The girl- Gamila Babet- nodded, frowning again. Montparnasse was beginning to think that was her default facial expression. 

Montparnasse was shivering from sitting out in the cold for so long. He didn’t want to leave the warmth of Babet’s apartment and go sleep in a piss reeking stairwell, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He was just about to make an excuse and sneak away when Babet spoke again.

“Are you hungry?” 

“Um,” Montparnasse’s stomach rumbled. “Yes?” he was always hungry. 

Babet cut up apples and they sat on the couch and ate them with honey while she told him about her family, how she’d come to France from Morocco to study dentistry but had ended up married instead. 

“How old are you?” Montparnasse had asked, knowing it was rude but not particularly caring.

“Nineteen.” She looked younger. “How old are you?”  
  
“Seven and a half,” Montparnasse said, sucking honey off the tips of his fingers.

Next door someone started shouting and Babet sighed, face pinched, like this was a regular and irritating occurrence. Since the apartment was directly under Montparnasse’s, he knew it was.

“He lost his job,” Montparnasse told her.

“What?”  
  
“The man who lives there, he lost his job. It’s why they’re always shouting now. They’ll probably move out soon.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
Montparnasse shrugged. “I pay attention.”

“How did you get on my balcony?” Babet asked again, her expression shrewd.

“I jumped out of my window,” Montparnasse admitted.  
  
Babet hummed and passed him another slice of apple.  
  
The next time Montparnasse climbed out of his window onto Babet’s balcony, he knocked on the glass until she came and let him in.

Montparnasse didn’t tell Éponine or the others about Babet. He wasn’t sure why, besides wanting something that was just for himself. Like a secret.

Éponine and Cosette had each other, _best friends_. Montparnasse didn’t have a best friend. His foster siblings hated him, the other kids all had someone else they liked better. Someone they’d pick over him, given the choice.

Babet liked him. Babet told him he was smart, clever, _observant_. No one had ever told Montparnasse he was good at anything before.

They were friends, after a fashion. Babet nagged him about schoolwork, cleaned up his cuts and bruises and stuffed him full of leftovers. Montparnasse kept her updated on all the gossip he overheard about their neighbours, told her stupid jokes and stories, made her laugh. 

It hadn’t taken much to win him over. Babet talked to him like a grown-up, slipped him pieces of fruit and sticky ma’amoul cookies, let him sleep on her floor by the heater on a pile of cushions sometimes when he didn’t want to go home. 

Montparnasse wasn’t sure what she got out of their weird little friendship, besides a kind of companionship. Babet didn’t seem to go out much, she was always at home when Montparnasse came around. Her husband was away a lot. She never brought him up, so Montparnasse never asked.

One day, when he’d showed up at her front door for a change instead of clambering the now familiar route out of his bedroom window, she’d opened it with a painful looking black eye. The dark purple swelling clashed nastily with the pale pink of her hijab and Montparnasse had winced sympathetically.

“What happened to your face?” he’d asked, and she’d given him a dirty look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Montparnasse wouldn’t meet Babet’s husband for another four years, and when he did it would be the only encounter they shared.

Babet has unusual morals for a crime-boss. She dislikes slum lords and drug dealers. She hates pimps and abusers. She likes money and order and when things go according to her very specific plans.

Her found family of street rats and lost boys, working girls and thugs are all loyal to a fault, none more so than Montparnasse.

He owes her. He owes her everything.

“Did you know they were planning this?” Babet asks eventually.

“What? No. How could we?”

Babet nods slowly, “And did you come here with the intention of killing them?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So you did not cause this chaos on purpose?”  
  
“Of course not,” Montparnasse mutters.  
  
“And you are sorry for the mess,” she says, something that could almost be a smile softening the edge of her mouth.

“Yes.”

Babet nods, like the matter is concluded. “I’ve sent Gueulemer home,” she says. “The two of you are off balance. You need a rest.”

Montparnasse frowns.

“It’s not your fault. I should not have sent you out like this without Claquesous.”  
  
“We’ve done jobs without him before. We’ve done jobs _alone_ before.”  
  
Babet just looks at him. Montparnasse clenches his jaw and looks away.

She’s right, he knows she is. They’re a mess. Even before this latest disaster they’ve been walking the line of out of control, Montparnasse falling too quickly to violence and Gueulemer, usually so steady, so rational, he’s been _missing_ things.

Details, like the increasing animosity between Lapointe’s people and Patron-Minette. The slow increase in hostility, the shift in territories, mutinous whispers. Things that he usually picks up on easy as breathing.

For them to have walked into a set up like this without an inkling that anything was wrong, to have to fight their way out like cornered animals, it’s a bad sign.

They’re too used to having someone else there, watching their backs.

“Take some time,” Babet says. “Let your ribs heal. Don’t smoke so much. Brujon and Barrecarrosse can pick up the slack.”

“Sure,” Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “Make them do some work for a change.”

“You are still terribly young,” Babet says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I forget that sometimes.”

Montparnasse looks at the blood drying on his hands and thinks that he’s never felt so old.

~

Dawn is creeping along the streets when Montparnasse finally stumbles home. 

He crawls into bed, pausing only to kick his boots and jeans off, and sleeps until late afternoon. His dreams are strange, formless and distressing. He wakes twice thinking someone is kneeling on his chest, the pain in his ribs seeping through to his unconscious mind.

When he finally gets up it’s already getting dark. He makes coffee in the empty kitchen anyway and drinks it black with no sugar like penitence, washing down a handful of painkillers.

Éponine is at work. There’s a scrap of paper on the fridge under a novelty Absinthe magnet, a reminder that the rent is due.

Montparnasse counts crumpled euro notes into an envelope, debates leaving out the ones with blood stains along the edges, decides it’s worth making their asshole landlord a little uncomfortable and shoves them in with the others. Maybe he’ll think about that the next time the heating breaks and Montparnasse has to go have words with him.

His phone is finally charged. When he turns it on he’s got several missed calls and messages. 

None of them are from Claquesous.

There’s a voicemail from Bizarro. He listens to it while he clears up his room, phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder as he picks at a dried blood stain on his t-shirt.

“Hey, asshole. You and Gee aren’t answering your phones so I assume you’re off having fun without me. Still no word on Sous, I asked Matti to keep an eye out though. We need to go out soon, Gee needs an excuse to stop waiting home by the phone and I need to dance. Thought we’d try that new place near République. You’re paying for drinks. Call me back you fucker. Love you, bye!”

_fuck you, you owe me from last time_ he sends to Bizarro. _I’ll go if G’s going._

_Of course G’s going_ she replies instantly, _we’ll split the tab ;)_

Montparnasse fills a sandwich bag with ice from the freezer and sets himself up on the couch with his laptop. The ice works quickly to numb the ache in his ribs but he can’t relax, can’t focus. His head’s too loud, too full of static. Every car passing outside the window, every tick of the clock, every trickle of freezing water running down his side is overwhelming.

Éponine texts to say she’s bringing Azelma back to the apartment for dinner but she needn’t have bothered, Montparnasse can hear them arguing all the way up the stairs. He’s grateful for the company, though he doesn’t like to admit it, especially since they’re in the middle of a blazing row.

“T'es rien qu'un _petite imbécile_!” Éponine’s voice echoes through from the hallway.

 _“Dégage!”_ Azelma screams, stomping through the front door and disappearing into Montparnasse’s bedroom in a blur of ripped stockings and eyeliner, slamming the door behind her.

Éponine flings her bag down with a wordless shriek of frustration.

“That _infuriating_ child!”  


“So, Azelma seems well,” Montparnasse says, setting his laptop aside and sitting up.

“Obnoxious little _brat!”_

“Calm down Ponine, you sound like your mother.”

“Oh _fuck_ you,” Éponine spits, but she sits down on the couch beside him and takes several deep breaths.

“What happened?”

“She decided to tell me, two months after the fact, that _cher Père_ is out on probation and living back at home.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Didn’t bother to tell me when it happened, no, not when he showed up with gifts, all apologies and hollow fucking promises. But as soon as he does what he always does, as soon as he steals her lunch money or tries to get Gav to run drugs for him or whatever the fuck he’s up to this time it’s ‘Oh, Éponine, please save us from Papa, he’s being mean!’ Just because she’s his _fucking_ favourite-”

“Your father doesn’t have favourites, Éponine. His favourite child is whichever one is doing him his next favour or bringing him his next drink.”

Éponine groans. “I know. I _know_ , alright. God. I’m just so fucking _angry_.”

“I can see that.”

“Will you talk to her?” Éponine pleads. “She listens to you.”  
  
“Maybe because I don’t scream at her and call her a brat.”  
  
“Don’t be a bitch, I can’t cope with it right now.”  
  
Montparnasse rolls his eyes and drags himself unsteadily to his feet, still holding the rapidly melting bag of ice to his ribs. “Fine,” he says, “but we’re having Lebanese for dinner and you’re calling it in.”  
  
“Sure, whatever.” 

In his room Azelma has flung herself dramatically across his bed, her head near the bottom, arms sprawled across the duvet.

“Didn’t even stop to take your shoes off,” Montparnasse tuts, shoving her battered converse clad feet aside and stretching out top to toe with her, propping himself up on his pillows.

Azelma is silent.

“How’s school? Still enjoying your horrible série scientifique classes?”

Nothing.

“Do you have a crush on anyone?”

Azelma turns her face to look at him with one huge dark eye through a tangle of messy curls. “As if I’d tell you.”  
  
“What? Don’t you trust me with your secrets any more?”  
  
“Not after what you did to Gilles,” Azelma says, turning her head so she’s not talking into the mattress.  
  
“You said Gilles was a creep.”  
  
“He _was_ a creep. He’s even more of a creep now, since you cut his face up.”  
  
“Well it serves him right for trying to fuck little girls,” Montparnasse says airily.  
  
“I was _fifteen_ , Parnasse,” she says, like that wasn’t only a year ago. “That makes it _legal_ , I know that’s a foreign concept to you. And besides, you were doing worse things much younger.”  
  
“Do as I say, not as I do,” Montparnasse sing-songs. “And fifteen is still far too young for a thirty year old.”  
  
“Casse-toi.”

“So?” Montparnasse prods her in the shoulder with his toe.

Azelma sighs and rolls over onto her back. “She’s pissed off because she thinks I’m pleased or something. Like I’m happy that he’s back. I’m not _stupid_. I just didn’t want her to worry.”

“She’s always going to worry.”  
  
Azelma heaves a gusty sigh. “I know.”

“How’s Gav?”

“Who the hell knows,” she shrugs. “I haven’t seen him in weeks.”  
  
“Does he have a phone?”  
  
“No. Maman pawned it.”  
  
“Of course she did,” Montparnasse turns to rummage around in his bedside drawer. “If he comes back give him this,” he tosses Azelma a burner phone.

“Thanks.” Azelma tucks it in her hoodie pocket. “So what the fuck happened to you, you get hit by a car or something?”

“Or something.” 

“Still pretending you’re not a dastardly crim?”

Montparnasse chucks the mostly melted bag of ice at her and she yelps and bats it away. 

“No, really,” Azelma smirks. “What was it this time? You tripped over a huge sack of cash? You were injured while rescuing a wealthy young woman from a terrible fate and she gave you a big reward? What?”  
  
“Oi, coquine,” Montparnasse shoves her off the bed with one foot.

Azelma laughs and drags herself back up the bed, crawling the right way up this time to rest her head on his shoulder.

Montparnasse has always tried to keep the worst of his unsavoury activities hidden from Azelma and Gavroche. It’s less about setting a poor example, he tells himself, and more about plausible deniability. 

Thieving, dealing, and beating up perverts is one thing, but there are lows he’s sunk to he wouldn’t want them hearing about. Things even Éponine doesn’t know about. Things they agreed a long time ago that she doesn’t _need_ to know about, so long as he keeps coming home alive and the rent keeps getting paid.

“You’re alright though?” Azelma asks, prodding indelicately at the bruises.

“I’m fine. Although I won't be if you keep jabbing at me like that.”

“Has Claquesous come back yet?” Azelma asks, tracing the edge of the deepest bruise until Montparnasse squirms and swats her fingers away.  
  
“Stop that.”  
  
“Éponine said you still haven’t heard from him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine too,” Montparnasse says, wrapping an arm around Azelma and ruffling her hair. “He’ll turn up. He always does.”

They’re quiet for a minute, listening to the sound of Éponine singing along to the radio in the next room.

“So, what’s going on with Éposette and the preppy boyfriend?”

Montparnasse groans. “Something that, if you have ever held any love for me in your heart, you will not make me talk about.”

“What, no polyamorous birds and bees talk for me? I’m shocked.”  
  
“Ok, fine. You want a talk? You got it.” Montparnasse sits up and assumes a stern expression. “You see, Zelma, when two girls and the human equivalent of a wedge of brie love each other very much-”

Azelma flails and screams. “Oh my god, no, stop! I take it back!”

“Yeah, I thought you might.”

They hang out for a while, Azelma fills Montparnasse in on how her classes are going and what it’s been like at home since Thénardier came back. It’s pretty much what he’d expected, nothing too serious yet.

“You know you can call me,” he tells her, “any time. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Azelma rolls her eyes, “if I want my dad taken out and dumped in the river you’re first on my list.”

“Seriously, though.”

“Seriously, I know. Who says I’m kidding?”  
  
“Well. Good.”

The door buzzes and Éponine calls them through to eat dinner.

The girls are quiet while they eat, as they always are after a fight. Those have been fewer and far between lately, but Montparnasse expects that with Thénardier back on the scene the peace won’t last.

After they’ve cleared the plates and take away containers away the three of them crash out in front of Montparnasse’s laptop to watch a film. 

Azelma thrusts a bottle of dark purple nail polish at Montparnasse, he recognises it as his own, she must have swiped it from the bathroom at some point, and he sets to the task of fixing her ragged chewed up nails. 

It’s a familiar, soothing ritual. Once Azelma’s done he waves at Éponine and she plops her feet across both of their laps so he can do her toes. 

Azelma falls asleep half way through the second film of the night and Montparnasse and Éponine extract themselves from the couch with practiced ease. Éponine throws a blanket over her sister and brushes her messy curls away from her face.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says quietly.

“Just do what you always do,” Montparnasse wraps her up in a hug. “As much as you can.”

_~_

That night, Montparnasse dreams again. 

This time they linger in the morning light, unsettling flashes that strung together make little sense. While he slept he walked through holy fire that licked cool against his skin, was caught by tender hands that burned when they wrapped around his neck, pulling him deeper into the flames. He heard church bells, watched as someone strewed lilies from a basket on blood-soaked cobbled streets, their fragile white petals bruising underfoot, soaking up the red.

Montparnasse sighs and stretches cautiously, mindful of his ribs. His hand brushes against something silky underneath his pillow and he catches hold of it, pulls it out.

It’s a length of ribbon, coloured delicate blush peach and fraying at one end where someone has been worrying at it. 

Montparnasse runs it through his fingers slowly, brushes the smooth side against his lips like a kiss.

The day stretches ahead of him, as empty as his apartment currently is. Azelma and Éponine are gone, as are the leftovers from last nights dinner. Montparnasse makes coffee and takes more painkillers, ices his ribs and ponders what to do with himself.

His mind wanders, as it has often done since the party, to Jehan.

Montparnasse doesn’t have a number typed into his phone or scrawled on a scrap of paper or leaking dark ink into his skin, he has nothing but a ribbon and the memory of Jehan’s kittenish smile when they’d wished him goodnight. 

Jehan lives with Feuilly, and Feuilly for all his long-suffering sighs and quiet disapproval, has always had time for Montparnasse. They’d crossed paths frequently as adolescents, sharing the same neighbourhood if not the same friends. Feuilly was quiet and studious, the one honest kid in all the cités, Éponine used to joke. He was also wickedly funny and genuinely kind, Montparnasse has always liked him even if he knew they were essentially cut from two very disparate kinds of cloth.

Montparnasse winds the peach ribbon around his fingers and makes a plan.

~

Feuilly works Monday to Thursday in a little tourist trap of a bistro in the 18th arrondissement. Montparnasse slips through the metro gates at Carrefour Pleyel behind a woman with an enormous suitcase and out with a crowd of shrieking school children at Blanche.   
  
The bistro is quiet when Montparnasse makes his way up Avenue Rachel, just one lone man sitting outside with an espresso and a book. Feuilly has a break at four and usually goes to smoke out of sight just inside the gates of the cemetery. It’s quarter to, so Montparnasse wanders in to wait.

He’s just settled down on a bench under the aqueduct when a scruffy looking black cat hops up next to him and starts making demanding chirping noises.

“Hello,” Montparnasse says warily. The cat meows plaintively and climbs onto his lap.

“I don’t think so,” he attempts to usher the thing away. It refuses, digs sharp claws into his thighs and starts purring. “Shit.” 

By the time Feuilly appears, cigarette already dangling from his lips and phone in hand, Montparnasse has resigned himself to his fate and is stroking the skinny ball of fur like a Bond villain. At least it makes for a dramatic tableau he thinks, as Feuilly looks up and notices him.

“That thing probably has fleas you know,” Feuilly says.

“Don’t be cruel to Berlioz,” Montparnasse scolds, scratching the cat behind his very likely flea-ridden ears. 

“What are you doing here.”

“Can’t an old friend stop by for a chat?”

Feuilly drags a hand over his eyes and mutters something unflattering.

“Do you have a light?” he asks, collapsing on the bench with a disturbing creaking sound.

Montparnasse winces, offering his zippo. “Was that your knees?”

“Yes,” Feuilly flicks the lighter open and touches his roll up to the flame. “I’ve been washing dishes since six this morning.”

Montparnasse pulls a horrified face. 

“We can't all live a glamorous life of crime.” Feuilly hands the lighter back and Montparnasse snorts, thinks about the bruises darkening on his ribs, the blood-stained shirt soaking in the sink at home in his bathroom. 

They sit in easy silence for a few minutes while Feuilly smokes. The newly dubbed Berlioz stands up and stretches, walks across Montparnasse’s legs to butt his head against Feuilly’s arm. Feuilly strokes him absently, callused fingers gentle under his purring chin.

“You want to talk about Jehan,” he says, stubbing his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe with his free hand. 

Montparnasse brushes cat hair off his thighs and keeps quiet, he knows from experience that Feuilly will spill everything but only so long as he doesn’t push.

“They asked about you,” Feuilly says eventually.

“What did you tell them?”

“That you’re a bad idea.”

“Flatterer,” Montparnasse grins with too many teeth. 

The faintest hint of a smile curls around Feuilly’s lips. “I told them not to confuse an evening of bad flirting and mediocre kissing with sincere interest.”

“Ouch,” Montparnasse claps a hand over his heart. “Mediocre? You wound me.”

Feuilly finally smiles. “I know what I know.”

“We were kids,” Montparnasse says, “I’ve gotten a lot better since then.”

“Are you flirting with me or trying to convince me to put in a good word for you with my friend?”

“I can’t do both?” Montparnasse flutters his eyelashes.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

“Always spoiling my fun,” Montparnasse sighs.

“We’ve never quite agreed on the definition of fun though, have we,” Feuilly says, leaning forward when the cat arches up to rub against his lightly stubbled jaw.

“What if I was sincere?” Montparnasse asks, tilting his head back to stare at the grid of rusting beams above them. 

“Are you?” Feuilly says, instead of pointing out that Montparnasse has never been sincere in his life, which was the response he’d expected.

“I might be.”

“You don’t sound all that convinced.”

Montparnasse hums, “R thinks we’d be good together.”

Feuilly actually laughs. “You’re taking romantic advice from _Grantaire?”_

“Shut up.”

Montparnasse can feel Feuilly’s eyes on the side of his head. He looks away, watches the big black crows flutter and caw back and forth at each other from their perches on a nearby tomb.

“Jehan has the right to make their own choices,” Feuilly says. “I can’t say I approve-”

“Right,” Montparnasse interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “Because I’m such a terrible person. I’ve heard all that already.”

Feuilly frowns. “No,” he says, “that’s just the excuse you use when you don’t want to try.”

Montparnasse looks back at him. “Pardon?”

“You’re not an inherently bad person, Montparnasse, even if you do a lot of bad things. You can be good when you want to be. But you have to decide, is Jehan worth the effort? Worth trying to be good for? Because they don’t do anything half-heartedly, and you could really hurt them if you treat this like a game.”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer.

“Think about it,” Feuilly says and stands, depositing the cat in his lap. “I have to get back to work, it’s been-” he pauses, blinks at Montparnasse’s slack expression. “Interesting.”

Montparnasse manages a nod and a wave as Feuilly saunters away. 

~

The conversation lingers with Montparnasse over the next few days.

He finds himself thinking about it, about Jehan, a lot. He thinks about kissing them, how he wanted to do more than kiss them, wanted to lay them out on his bed and take them apart. He thinks about how good they’d felt in his arms, the press of their thighs against his waist, the sweet-sharp pain of their fingers tangled in his hair.

He thinks about it and he _wants_.

But, more than that, he thinks about their smile, the light in their eyes when they talked about writing, how they’d flinched at Grantaire’s pain like it was their own. He thinks about the trust on their face when he’d knelt before them and cupped their cheek in his hand. 

Montparnasse thinks about it so he doesn’t have to think about Claquesous’ radio silence and Gueulemer’s quiet panic. 

He thinks about it after he listens to the voicemail from Gavroche’s school, asking if his legal guardian would be willing to come in and discuss his attendance.

He thinks about it when he’s working, slipping through the worst parts of the city like a shadow on his way to do terrible things.

Montparnasse thinks about Jehan and wonders how someone like them could ever fit into his life.

And then he makes himself stop. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, bookmarked and left kudos! You're the best ♥
> 
> Translations (aka Mardi teaches you to swear in French):  
> Chas v’chalila - Heaven Forbid (that's Hebrew, not French)  
> Connard - Asshole  
> Lépou - (impolite) slang for Police  
> Enfoiré - bastard/motherfucker/dickhead etc (it's an all rounder)  
> Regarde ce foutu bordel - Look at this fucking mess  
> Non, Papa. C’est moi - No, Dad. It's me  
> Parlez-vous Français? - Do you speak French?  
> T'es rien qu'un petite imbécile - You're just a little fool  
> Dégage - Piss off  
> Cher Père - Dear Father  
> Série scientifique classes - Azelma chose maths and science as her focus course for her last two years at school. Montparnasse was horrified (and proud).  
> Casse-toi - Fuck off  
> Coquine - Naughty/cheeky  
> Cités - estates/projects


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: discussion of a transmisogynistic encounter (no slurs), mild emetophobia warning.

The secret, Montparnasse knows, to always getting what you want, is to only want what you can get.

Montparnasse is a creature of desire. It’s not so much an addictive personality as a yawning hunger, something cracked and jagged inside of him like a black hole sucking in endlessly and spitting out nothing.

It’s a hard lesson to learn, that wanting will betray you. When he was younger, Montparnasse wanted a lot of things. He wanted to please his foster family, then he wanted them to leave him alone, then he wanted to be free of them. He wanted not to go hungry. He wanted not to get hit. Pointless wants. You can yearn for something until it destroys you, but it won’t get you anywhere.

Wanting attention, Montparnasse knows, any kind of attention, is dangerous. Pushing for a reaction, hoping to be noticed, acknowledged, it’s like throwing rocks at a wasps nest.

But then, Montparnasse has never claimed to have good impulse control.

Which leaves him, this quiet afternoon, drifting around the apartment, desperate for something to distract himself with.  In theory he’s resting, letting his ribs heal up so he can go back to being useful. In practice he is horribly, _dreadfully_ bored.

He has done laundry. He’s done the washing up. He’d even ventured into Éponine’s room to collect the many empty coffee cups, glasses and plates accumulated around her desk, whereupon he had been confronted with a book titled ' _Healthy, Happy, Poly'_ the spine cracked from multiple readings and the pages littered with pastel coloured post-it notes bearing cramped notes in Cosette’s elegant copperplate handwriting.

He’d given up on housework after that.

Montparnasse collapses onto the couch, wincing when it jars his bruises, and prays for a distraction from the mindless tedium. 

His phone buzzes.

The text is from the burner phone he gave Azelma for Gavroche and something tight in his chest unwinds a little at the sight of the familiar number. 

The relief doesn’t last long.

_Hypothetically_ … the message begins and Montparnasse groans aloud, pressing his face into the couch cushions.

_Hypothetically… if I got picked up for vandalism, would u be around to bail me out?_

_where are u_

_Javert’s_

Montparnasse groans again, louder this time.

_so u dont need bail then_

_Plsssssssssss come get me hes going on and on about morality and respecting the law :(_

_give me 45 minutes_

_I’ll be dead from boredom by then_

_30_

_:)_

Montparnasse rolls off the couch onto the floor and lays there for a minute, staring bleakly up at the ceiling.

He just had to tempt fate.

~

Javert lives in a small house on the edge of Belleville close to Rue de Ménilmontant.

Montparnasse takes a moment to brace himself before he rings the bell, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the front door and taking a calming breath.

He’s not great with authority figures. 

Especially male authority figures. 

Especially ex-feuk male authority figures who sneer and curl their lip and look at him like he’s lower than dirt, like something unpleasant they stepped in while walking through the park that needs scraping off on the nearest curb.

Javert’s mild expression turns dark when opens the door to find Montparnasse waiting on the doorstep with a carefully applied smirk.

“Afternoon Inspector.”

“I’m retired,” Javert snaps before turning his frown on Gavroche who is hovering at his back, peering past the both of them like he wants to make a break for freedom. “I told you to call one of your sisters.”

“Éponine’s working and Azelma and Cosette have class,” Gavroche says. “You wouldn't want them to have to miss school to look after me, would you?” he widens his eyes innocently at Javert who glares between the pair of them suspiciously, but eventually gestures for Montparnasse to come in.

“Don’t touch anything,” he warns, turning to lead them through the hallway. Montparnasse immediately reaches out to nudge a crucifix on the wall so it’s hanging slightly off balance.

Gavroche catches his eye and grins. Montparnasse returns it for a second before remembering he’s only here because Gavroche has been out getting himself in trouble. 

Javert leads them through to a small but impeccably clean and tidy kitchen.  “Sit down,” he says, arms folded and looming over them like his neat kitchen table with the worn linen table cloth is an interrogation room bench.

Gavroche slumps into a seat. Montparnasse drags a chair out, deliberately scraping the legs on the kitchen tiles, and sits down sprawled casually with his ankles crossed.

Javert stays standing. “I caught young Monsieur Thénardier graffitiing the side of a building in Pont de Flandre this morning.”

Montparnasse sits for a beat in silence then raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “And?”

“This is why I wanted you to call your sister,” Javert says to Gavroche. “What use is there in talking to him?” 

“What is it they say? Boys will be boys? I’m sure Gavroche was just letting off steam.”  
  
“He was truant from school and caused damage to public property,” Javert snaps. “I know you have no sense of decency and no respect for the law but Gavroche still has a chance to make something of himself and these kind of irresponsible acts must be taken seriously.”

Gavroche catches Montparnasse’s eye and they fight back the urge to snigger like- well. Like school children.

“Something must be done,” Javert continues. “This childish hooliganism is unacceptable. He needs to learn how to behave.”

Gavroche sinks his chin into the neck of his hoodie when Javert turns to look at him. 

“You could make so much more of yourself than this.”  
  
Montparnasse sits up in his chair. “Gavroche is perfectly fine as he is.”

“And such a wonderful example you set for him. Do you want him to turn out like you and your friends?” Javert asks, planting his hands on the table and leaning into Montparnasse’s space. “Stealing from good, honest people and whoring on street corners?”

Montparnasse’s smile is cold as the grave. “Oh, _Inspector._ And here I thought you’d forgotten all about our little trysts.”  
  
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”  
  
“Gracious, no. I leave the thinking up to big strong men like you.”  
  
Javert pulls himself up to his full height. “You will not speak to me like that in my own house.”  
  
“Shall we go outside then? Like old times?” Montparnasse winks. “Want to chase me up and down the street to get yourself going?”

Gavroche stifles a laugh with a cough and Javert frowns at him. “You think this is funny, do you?” he asks, voice veering towards too loud. “It’s not too late for me to turn you in to the proper authorities, boy.”

“Do not shout at him,” Montparnasse says calmly, getting to his feet. 

Gavroche sits perfectly still in his seat, eyes fixed firmly on the kitchen floor.

“If you were going to do anything about this you wouldn’t have brought him to your home, you would have taken him to the station.”  
  
“Perhaps that’s exactly what I should do.”  
  
“Why, because you’re angry with me? You’d take that out on him? That’s awfully _petty_ of you, Inspector.” 

Javert bares his teeth in a silent snarl and clenches his fists but says nothing.

“I think we’re done here.” Montparnasse turns to Gavroche, “Come on, let's go.”

“Thank Christ,” Gavroche sighs, sliding out of his seat.

“Watch your mouth young man,” Javert says with a frown.  
  
“Yeah, Gav. Stop fucking swearing, mon Dieu,” Montparnasse chides him mockingly and Gavroche snickers.

They’re almost out the front door when harsh fingers close around Montparnasse’s upper arm, jerking him to a halt. Montparnasse can’t suppress a violent flinch but Javert doesn’t seem to notice.

“While I have you here,” Javert says, hand clenched like a vice, pinning Montparnasse in place. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the three men found dead in La Chapelle last week, would you Montparnasse?”  
  
Montparnasse pulls a sloppy imitation of Cosette’s naïve ingenue face. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector.”

Javert’s fingers tighten further. “I know you’re lying,” he growls. “I know you and that _woman_ are involved in this and I _will_ find out how.”  
  
“I thought you were retired?” Montparnasse finds that leaning into someone’s unwanted touch often works better than pulling away. “If you want me to stick around, Inspector, you know you only have to ask.” He flutters his eye lashes, bites his lower lip.

Javert shoves Montparnasse away roughly, his face a moue of distaste. “Get out.”  
  
“That went well,” Gavroche says when they’re a safe distance from the house, outside of which Javert is still standing, watching them leave with a face like thunder.

Montparnasse snorts, ignoring the adrenaline threat-response that’s got his heart racing. “Oh yeah, always lovely catching up with old Javert.”

Gavroche sticks his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders. “Sorry he was such a dick to you.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it, I just bring out the best in him. What were you doing in Pont de Flandre?”  
  
“Running an errand.”

“For your father?”

Gavroche shrugs and flips his hood up, chewing on the string. “Zelma told you?”  
  
“She told Éponine, who told me.”

“S’not a big deal,” Gavroche mutters.

“Hm.” Montparnasse frowns.

“What are you doing now?” Gavroche asks when they reach the end of the street. “Can we get McDo’s?”

Montparnasse looks him over critically. “When’s the last time you ate a vegetable?”

“Frites are vegetables.”  
  
“A _green_ vegetable.”

“When’s the last time _you_ did?”

“Great comeback.”  
  
“Am I wrong?”  
  
“We’re getting bánh mì, there’s a good place near the cimetière.”  
  
“ _Fine,_ ” Gavroche huffs, like he’s not secretly delighted by the prospect of his favourite free lunch.  
  
They walk in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scuff-slap of Gavroche dragging his ragged sneakers across the pavement.

“I’m very disappointed,” Montparnasse says eventually.

“I know.”

“We’ve talked about this, Gav.”  
  
“I _know_.”  
  
“Situational awareness. It’s the _most important thing_ if you don’t want to get caught.”  
  
“He snuck up on me!”  
  
“That’s what he _does_ ,” Montparnasse says and Gavroche pouts.  
  
“You can’t talk anyway,” Gavroche says once they’re seated across from each other at a tiny lunch table waiting for their food. “I heard you got jumped last week.”  
  
“Where did you hear that?” Montparnasse’s voice is sharp enough that Gavroche jerks his head up to look at him.  
  
“Around,” he says warily.  
  
Montparnasse swears and Gavroche carefully leans back in his seat, out of arms reach.

Montparnasse’s stomach churns. “Sorry,” he says, resting his face in his hands for a few seconds.  
  
“Is it true then?”

Montparnasse sighs and drags a weary hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Babet will not be happy to hear that word’s gotten around about that little incident.

“You haven’t been going to collège,” Montparnasse says once the food’s arrived and Gavroche has descended upon his bánh mì with the focussed savagery of a pack of starving hyenas. 

“Nope,” Gavroche says with his mouth full, spraying crumbs across the table.  
  
“They called me.”  
  
Gavroche’s head shoots up again. “Did they-”

“No, they didn’t call your parents.”

“Cool.”

“Why don’t you want to go to class?”  
  
Gavroche huffs and picks at a stray sliver of carrot. “It’s a fucking waste of time, you know that.”  
  
Montparnasse puts his sandwich down and leans his elbows on the table. “You have to go, Gav. If Éponine stands any chance of getting custody, your records need to be as clean as possible.”  
  
“Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen,” Gavroche mutters bitterly. “And my records are already crap. I’m failing all my tests. The teachers treat me like I’m stupid when I can’t do the work because it’s too confusing but they never explain anything, they just shout at me and tell me I’m not listening but I _try_ , I do, it’s just too hard.” Gavroche’s voice gets louder and more wobbly as he picks up steam. “It’s _bullshit_ , I don’t see why I have to go. You dropped out and no one gave a fuck, why can’t I?”

A woman sitting at the next table over is staring at them, scandalised no doubt by little Gavroche’s creative vocabulary. Montparnasse glares at her threateningly until she pales and looks away.

“Yeah, no one gave a fuck when I dropped out,” he says. “You know why?”  
  
Gavroche gnaws on the end of his baguette and shakes his head.  
  
“Because no one gave a fuck about me. You’re smarter than me Gav, and you’ve got people on your side. I know it really sucks but if you give up now you’re letting them win. Fuck that.”  
  
Gavroche slumps down in his chair, hiding behind his fringe.  
  
“You like art class, don't you?” Gavroche shrugs. “Are you still drawing your cartoons?”  
  
“They’re not _cartoons_ , they’re comics. And they’re shit.”  
  
“They’re not shit. R liked them, remember? He said you had a good eye for detail.”  
  
“He just said that stuff ‘cause you were fucking him,” Gavroche mutters, but he sits up a bit straighter.

“Grantaire doesn’t lie about art,” Montparnasse says in a pretentious voice and bites back a triumphant smile when Gavroche laughs. “Here,” he pushes his mostly untouched sandwich across the table, “do you want this? I’m not hungry.” 

Gavroche snatches the bánh mì up like he’s expecting someone to swoop down and steal it out of his hands and Montparnasse takes a minute to breathe slowly through the rage bubbling under his ribs.

“Try and go to school. At least show up for registration, even if you don’t go to class.”  
  
Gavroche chews and glares. “I’m not promising anything.”  
  
“Fair enough. But for fuck’s sake, stop letting Javert catch you pulling stunts like that. He’s been weirdly lenient lately but that won’t last.”

“Are you gonna tell Éponine?”  
  
Montparnasse has no intention of giving Éponine anything else to worry about. It’s why he didn’t tell her when Gavroche’s school had called him. She doesn’t need the stress.  
  
“Are you going to try and go to class?” he asks, unashamed about using any leverage he can to get Gavroche’s school off his back.

“Fine.”  
  
Gavroche bolts down the rest of Montparnasse’s sandwich and eyes his soda with a hungry look. Montparnasse takes a sip and pushes the can across the table to him too.

You know,” Gavroche says, “it’s going to get real creepy if you keep flirting with the Good Inspector once he’s our stepdad.”

Montparnasse chokes on air. “ _What_ ,” he croaks.

“He’s totally in love with Cosette’s dad,” Gavroche grins. “Didn’t she tell you? They go on, like, old man dates and everything. She thinks it’s cute.”

“That is _disgusting_ ,” Montparnasse says, taking his soda back from Gavroche to wash the unsavoury thought away. “Never tell me anything like that again. Fucking hell.”

Gavroche smirks and waits until Montparnasse takes another sip of his drink.

“Are Éponine and Cosette and Marius going to have a baby?”

Montparnasse snorts lemonade out of his nose and Gavroche cackles.

~

Thursday nights are meeting nights for Les Amis de l‘ABC and lately Éponine has gone to every single one.

She used to come home from the Musain under a dark cloud of misery, to the point where Montparnasse had considered sitting her down for an intervention, begging her to stop going, to stop torturing herself. 

All of that’s changed since the party. Now she practically floats through the door, smiling beatifically at Montparnasse where he’s sitting reading.

“Good evening,” she beams, flouncing over to kiss him on the cheek. “I brought some food back from work earlier if you’re hungry.” 

“Hey. I already ate, thanks.” 

He’d hung out with Gavroche for the rest of the afternoon and been convinced (blackmailed) into buying them burgers for dinner in exchange for Gavroche’s solemn vow that he would go to school the next morning and stay for at least one class period. 

“I’m not staying past lunch,” Gavroche had said, appalled, stuffing his cheeks full of frites like a hamster. “It’s _Friday_.”  
  
Éponine bustles into the kitchen and turns the radio on, comes back with a full plate and a glass of wine.  
  
“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks casually, fluffing her couscous with a fork.

Montparnasse turns a page of his book pointedly. “Nothing.”

“Are you going to be home tomorrow night?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Éponine shrugs and sips her wine.  
  
“I’m going out with Bizarro and Gueulemer.”  
  
“Oh,” Éponine says, “good.”  
  
“Should I plan to stay at their place?”  
  
“Um. Maybe.”  
  
Montparnasse fights back a grimace and buries his nose in his book. “That’s fine, they won’t care.”

“Thank you,” Éponine smiles and turns back to her plate, humming along to the terrible pop music playing in the kitchen.

“Parnasse,” she says once she’s finished eating.

“Mm.”

“Are you happy?”

Montparnasse lowers the book and stares at her. “What?” 

Éponine stares back. “What.”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Well, I thought it was an easy one, but clearly I was mistaken.”

“What does that even mean,” Montparnasse asks. “Are _you_ happy?”

“Most of the time, yeah,” Éponine says, and its kind of shock to hear her being open and honest about her feelings instead of shrugging him off or misdirecting. Kind of like he's doing to her now.

“Well,” Montparnasse says, “that’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Éponine’s tone is gentle in a way that puts his back up.

“I’m ecstatic,” he drawls, turning back to his book.

“I just think-” Éponine continues and Montparnasse kind of wants to get up and leave, he doesn't want to have this conversation, “-that you deserve to be happy.”

“Ok,” he says, and he sounds more sarcastic than he means to. It’s a sweet sentiment. But he’s just- not sure what to make of it. 

Montparnasse is used to working towards being _content_.

Content means: a roof over his head, food at regular intervals, the people he cares about safe and healthy. 

Happiness, he supposes, is in the extra things: when a job comes together flawlessly, the thrill of getting a really expensive couture piece for free, dancing, walking the streets at night knowing nothing can touch him, kissing someone beautiful.

“I know you don’t want to hear about it,” Éponine says and Montparnasse refuses to feel guilty about that.

“It’s not that I don’t want to hear about it,” he says, “I just don’t want to _hear_ about it.”

She grins. “I’ll spare you the gruesome details.”

“Please do,” Montparnasse writes the book off as a loss and throws it down on the coffee table. “I can tell you are just _dying_ to talk about it though, so,” he waves an indulgent hand, “out with it.”

Éponine flings herself down on the chair with him and it’s only years of experience that lets Montparnasse predict such a move and narrowly avoid an elbow to the solar plexus.

“Merde, Ponine. I’m fucking injured here, you know?”

“That’s your own damn fault.”  
  
“Thanks for the sympathy,” Montparnasse groans when she bumps against the worst of the bruising.

“Ok,” she says, wriggling around until she’s comfortably sprawled across his lap. “So I know you knew about Marius, but did you know Cosette was my first kiss?”

“Gross,” Montparnasse mutters and then yelps when Éponine pulls his hair.

“Shut up, I’m telling the story.”

“ _So_ sorry, do please continue telling me all about how two people I think of as my sisters were having sexy slumber parties whenever I wasn’t around.”

“Ok, no. I was fifteen and she was fourteen and it was perfectly innocent thank you very much. Besides, don’t think I don’t know what you and Feuilly were getting up to in those days.”

Montparnasse resists the urge to pout. “Yes, well. Let's not talk about that.” _Mediocre_ , he thinks bitterly.

“You never wondered how I figured out I was bi?” Éponine asks.

“It wasn’t exactly a huge surprise.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“So it was after she moved back?” Montparnasse prompts, because he kind of does want to know the whole story, even if it’s mostly morbid curiosity that makes him ask.

“Well yeah, we weren’t macking on each other when she was ten. That _would_ have been gross.”

“I didn’t know you were even speaking to each other back then.”

Éponine sighs. “We weren’t, really. Not at first.”

Montparnasse wraps his arms around Éponine’s waist and rests his chin on the top of her head. When Cosette was adopted, spirited away by an old friend of her mother’s a month before her eleventh birthday, Éponine had been devastated.

“I was so fucked up when she just showed up again. It was like when she left she took half of me with her. All the good parts, the sweet parts, and left me with the broken _angry_ bits.” Éponine sighs. “I wanted to hate her. I had to, because if I didn't…”

Montparnasse nods.

“She never wrote, never called. She just left. And then she waltzes into our school three years later, all rich and shit with expensive clothes and nice hair and _braces_ , like nothing fucking happened. Like she never fucking knew us.” Éponine laughs humourlessly. “It was stupid, kid stuff. Of course she couldn’t have written to me. Of course she didn’t think we’d go back to being best friends, just like that. But god, it broke my heart.”

“So when did you realise you like-liked her.”

“You’re such a dork, fuck.”  
  
Montparnasse digs his fingers into Éponine’s ribs until she squawks and smacks him.  
  
“Glorieux had that party, do you remember?” she asks.  
  
“The one with the fire or the one with-”

“The one with the fight.”

“Yeah, I remember that.”  
  
“Amazing, considering how utterly wasted you were.”  
  
“Ugh, I know,” Montparnasse groans. “To this day I still can’t drink cider. Just the smell of it,” he gags.  
  
“You threw up all over Gueulemer’s feet,” Éponine grins. “It was hilarious.”  
  
“That was pretty funny,” Montparnasse allows.

“Wasn’t that the first time he met Claquesous, as well?”

“Yup. Great first impression: ‘Hello, I’ve heard so much about you. Please excuse my vomit-filled socks.’”  
  
Éponine giggles. “Anyway,” she says. “You were already shitfaced by this point, but Cosette showed up and got disgracefully tipsy on two glasses of shandy and when I went over to tell her she should leave, she got all up in my face about being a bitch to her and then she kissed me.”  
  
“That’s kind of adorable,” Montparnasse begrudgingly admits. “Wait, though. If you were fifteen then that means she wasn’t your first kiss, I was. We kissed that time when we were thirteen.”  
  
“You don’t count.”  
  
“So rude! Why do I not count?”  
  
“You just don’t.”  
  
“Ugh,” Montparnasse dumps Éponine out of his lap onto the floor. “Fuck you.”  
  
“Fuck you too, dick,” Éponine says, but she’s laughing, crawling over to the coffee table to reclaim her glass of wine.  
  
“So if you kissed way back then, how’d it take you until now to get your shit together?”  
  
“Well,” Éponine sips her wine and shoves her tangled hair out of her face. “Neither of us brought it up. She never said anything to me, so I assumed she’d forgotten, and I never said anything to her so she assumed I hated it and didn’t want to talk about it ever again. So we didn’t talk about it.”  
  
“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Éponine leans up against the arm of the couch. “Kind of a huge waste of time, when you think about it. But we made friends again after that. Which didn’t help the whole, sudden life-changing crush thing.”

“Is that why you pretended to date Fauntleroy that time when you were in Première?” Montparnasse asks. “Because Cosette was going out with the German kid?”

“We weren’t pretending,” Éponine says, which is as good as a yes.

“Bouquètiere is gayer than I am,” Montparnasse points out, “there’s no way you two did anything besides watch cartoons and get high.”

“No one is gayer than you are,” Éponine grumbles, and Montparnasse decides to take that as the compliment it so clearly is, actual pansexuality aside.

“And Pontmercy?”

Éponine blushes. “You know I liked Marius even before I knew they were dating.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I had to watch you mope about it for a fucking year.”  
  
“It wasn’t that fun for me either, alright? Besides, you can’t fucking talk.”  
  
“Ah, ferme ta gueule.”  
  
Éponine sticks her tongue out at him.

“You’re really happy then?” Montparnasse asks and she smiles.

“I really am. I mean, I’m fucking terrified, obviously.”

“Yeah.”

“I never thought I could have this. Don’t laugh, but sometimes I wake up and think I must’ve dreamt it. Cosette… she’s my best friend. And she and Marius were already so happy together, they’re perfect for each other you know?”

Montparnasse shrugs. Personally he’s never seen any evidence that Marius Pontmercy has any more personality than a tub of plain yoghurt, but to each their own.

“It scares the shit out of me. I need them so much more than they need me. Especially Cosette, fuck. I just keep thinking, what am I gonna do when she leaves? When I fuck this up and drive them away, when they decide they’re better off without me and end this? What do I do when I end up on my own again?”

“You won’t be on your own. And who says that will even happen?”

Éponine smiles but it’s hollow. “Not like you to be the voice of optimism.”

“Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien.”

“Dork,” Éponine snorts.

“So. Scared but happy?” Montparnasse asks.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Pretty much. God, I love them both so much. It’s disgraceful.”

“It really is,” Montparnasse agrees solemnly and yelps when she lunges forward at him. “Not the face, shit!”  
  
It’s bittersweet, seeing Éponine in love.

Montparnasse worries for her, can’t help but run through all the ways it could fall apart. Can’t help but dwell on how damaging the fall out would be, how she could lose two people so important to her.

It’s just too much of a risk, he thinks. Love.

~

Montparnasse heads over to Bizarro and Gueulemer’s apartment early on Friday evening.

“Should you even be drinking with fractured ribs?” Gueulemer asks anxiously as Montparnasse lays on the couch, sipping vodka and Coke Zero from the only clean tumbler he could find in the kitchen with a cold pack balanced on his chest. 

“They’re just bruised, man. I’ll be fine. Stop _hovering_.”  


“Alright,” Gueulemer throws his hands up and sits down on the love-seat. “Suit yourself.”  


“What’s this place we’re going to like?”  
  
Gueulemer shrugs. “No idea. Someone Biz works with told her about it.”  
  
Montparnasse pulls a face. “It better not be like the last one.”  
  
“Fuck,” Gueulemer looks alarmed at the thought. “With the cowboy hats? I’m not suffering through that again.”  
  
“We can just leave, I guess.”  
  
“Yeah, good luck with that. She’s been talking about it all week, I think stuff at work-” he goes quiet when they hear a key in the front door.

“Hello my darlings,” Bizarro greets them, kicking the front door open and throwing her keys on the side table. “I have had the worst _fucking_ day imaginable.”

She strips her coat off and leaves it on the floor, stomping over the love-seat and throwing herself down next to Gueulemer.

Bizarro and Gueulemer have been friends since long before Montparnasse knew either of them. At first glance they appear to be polar opposites, Bizarro is loud and outgoing to the point of abrasiveness while Gueulemer is reticent around anyone he doesn’t know especially well.

At some point the unstoppable force of Bizarro’s ebullient personality met the immovable object of Gueulemer’s semi-neurotic calm and, somehow, they clicked. They’ve been friends and roommates ever since, living in a perpetual state of contented domestic-disaster.

“What happened?” Montparnasse asks, sitting up on the couch.

“Got misgendered at work today, lads,” she jokes, but there’s tension in her shoulders and she clenches her jaw when she smiles at them.

“Where,” Montparnasse asks, setting his glass aside and coming to sit next to her, all three of them squeezed onto the too-small seat. “The shop or the bar?”

“The shop, obviously,” Bizarro rolls her eyes. “Like anyone would dare at the Corinthe. Some fucking dickhead customer thought they were funny and no one did shit about it, but of course the minute I tell them to watch their mouth shit kicks off. So I walked out. The manager was a fucking lecherous asshole anyway, fuck that place.”

“Want to swing by later tonight and smash their windows?” Gueulemer asks.

“Piss through their letterbox?” Montparnasse offers.

“Aw, you’re sweet boys,” Bizarro smiles, slinging her arms around their shoulders. “But there’s no need, I’ve been stealing from the cash register for months.”

“Nice,” Montparnasse wraps an arm around her waist and squeezes gently.

“I’m sorry they were such shits,” Gueulemer says, resting his head against hers and Bizarro sighs.  
  
“Whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it any more. Let’s get drunk, yeah?”

“Good call,” Montparnasse pries himself off the couch and heads for the kitchen. “What’s your poison?”

“Vodka, if you haven’t finished it.”

“I picked up a fresh bottle,” Montparnasse says, pulling it out of the freezer.

“You’re an angel.”

Montparnasse searches the kitchen for another clean glass before declaring it a lost cause and pouring a healthy measure of vodka into an old Bonne Maman jar and topping it up with coke.

“Thanks,” Bizarro smiles at him when he passes it to her, before coughing and wrinkling her nose when she takes a sip. “Is this fucking Light?”

“Zero.”  


“I take it back, you’re a monster.”  
  
“No calories,” Montparnasse swigs his drink and smacks his lips.  
  
“You ate a whole pack of Petit Écolier in under ten minutes earlier,” Gueulemer points out.  
  
“Yeah, which is why I’m balancing it out by having diet soda. It’s simple science.”

“In _no way_ is that how science works.”

“Whatever.”  
  
Bizarro takes another sip of her drink, wincing at the taste. “I’m going to go get changed. Gee, are you planning on going out like that?”  
  
“Yes,” Gueulemer says, eyes fixed on his phone as he texts. “I am.”  
  
“Don’t even try,” Montparnasse sighs. “It’s not worth the effort.”  
  
“I look fine.”  
  
Montparnasse and Bizarro exchange glances. Gueulemer props his feet up on the table and ignores them.

“I assume you brought a shirt,” Bizarro says, gesturing with her confiture jar at Montparnasse’s bare chest. “This isn’t really a clothing-optional kind of place. Not at the beginning of the night anyway.”

“I was icing my ribs. I put my stuff in your room.”  
  
“How are they?” Bizarro asks, heading for her bedroom. Gueulemer’s still wrapped up in his phone so Montparnasse picks up his glass and follows her.  
  
“Fine, mostly. Still hurts like a bitch when I laugh. Or sneeze. Or cough.”  
  
“Fun.”  
  
Montparnasse sits down on Bizarro’s bed and sips his drink. Bizarro unselfconsciously strips out of her work clothes, flinging them haphazardly towards the laundry basket in the corner of the room, and Montparnasse resists the urge to get up and tidy them away. Bizarro hates when he and Gueulemer mother-hen her.

“I’m really in the mood to set something on fire,” she says, hands on her hips and chin tilted as she gazes at her reflection in the mirror over her cluttered and dusty dressing table.

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Why not both?”

“You sure you don’t want to swing by your boss’s place later?”

Bizarro’s smile is as beautiful as it is dangerous. “Let’s see where the night takes us.” She digs through a pile of clothes on a nearby chair, flinging bras and leggings and skirts aside.

“What are you looking for?”

“The gold dress with the straps.”  
  
“It’s drying in the bathroom.”

Bizarro wanders out of the room as Montparnasse’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at the display. Grantaire is calling. 

“Are you doing your face?” Bizarro asks, coming back with the dress and sitting down at the dressing table to fix her hair. 

Montparnasse cancels the call and puts his phone on silent. “Can’t be bothered.”

Bizarro peers at him in the reflection of her mirror. “Ok, what’s going on.”

“What?”

“You’re moping.”

“I am not.”

Bizarro turns around to face him and raises a sceptical eyebrow. “I’m basically naked and you haven't looked at my ass even once.”

“You have a fantastic ass, Biz,” Montparnasse sighs. “Don’t worry, it hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“I know, right?” she stands and jumps onto the bed next to him. “Tonight is about having a good time, ok? I know you’re fragile, but suck it up sweetheart,” she pokes him right in the middle of the darkest bruise and he flinches, spilling his drink over his fingers.

“Why do people keep _doing_ that?”

“We like to watch you squirm. But seriously, babe. You look miserable. When’s the last time you got laid?”

Montparnasse licks vodka off his wrist and doesn’t answer.

“That long? Christ.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“…stuff.”

“Stuff. Right. Well, tonight’s the night. Let off some steam, trip the light fantastic. Get rawed.”  
  
“That was beautiful, Bizarro. Thank you.”  
  
Bizarro grins, “I try.” She hops off the bed and pulls her dress on, fiddling with the cross back straps until he gets up and fixes them for her. “Get dressed, it’s time to go.”  
  
The new club, it turns out, is in a heinously gentrified area and full to the brim with bobo idiots.

Montparnasse despises it on sight.

Bizarro abandons them for the dance floor the minute they’re through the door. Montparnasse trails after Gueulemer to the bar, takes one look at the enormous crowd and solitary person serving and slips away to find someone who’ll buy him a drink.

It’s not a difficult task. Even off his game he looks damn good and the sort of people who come to places like this fall all over themselves trying to please him, drawn in by the deceptive sweetness of his face, the practiced way he swings his hips and smiles so prettily, the promise of something darker in his eyes.

One guy singles him out straight away, gets up in his personal space in an overwhelming wave of cologne and leans down to shout a name Montparnasse immediately forgets in his ear over the pulsing beat of shitty house music.

Cologne-guy plies him with drinks, talks at length about his abominably boring job doing… something. Montparnasse isn’t listening. He’s blonde and harmless looking, soft around the edges under his expensive shirt. Possibly a banker or a lawyer. He seems nervous, laughing too hard whenever Montparnasse speaks, even when he’s not making a joke.

The next time he goes to the bar Montparnasse slips away.  
  
He’s working his way across the dance floor, trying to spot Bizarro, when someone catches his wrist. Montparnasse twists in their grip, fingers flying to his waist where his knife _isn’t_ for once, because this shitty club has metal detectors, when he realises it’s just some guy wanting to dance. 

This one’s tall and built with dark hair and a mean looking smile. Montparnasse smiles back, lets himself be pulled into the crush of people. Bizarro whirls past, surrounded by a crowd of fawning admirers and nods approvingly.

Tall-guy is a decent dancer, albeit a little handsy, but Montparnasse is bored. The music sucks. His head’s swimming from too many drinks on an empty stomach, biscuits notwithstanding.

He wants to lose himself in the music, the press of people around him, the comfort of being a mindless body in a room full of mindless bodies, but it’s not working.

Tall-guy grinds against him, rubbing his hard-on against the small of his back and Montparnasse rolls his eyes. He wonders where Gueulemer is. He wonders why Grantaire was calling him.

He thinks briefly of dark eyes, pink lips, red hair. Where are they tonight? Would they enjoy a place like this? Would they dance with him, if they met in a club, would they slip slender arms around his neck and press against him in the dark, would they go home with him? Would they stay?  
  
Tall-guy licks the back of Montparnasse’s neck and he cringes and pulls away, puts space between them.

He’s not going to think about it.

He’s going to dance and drink and go home with a decent looking stranger who doesn’t make his heart race or his hands tremble with desire.

Someone bland and ordinary.

They will have perfunctory sex and Montparnasse will steal their wallet when he leaves, will walk home down empty streets in the grey light before the sun rises and crawl into his bed alone and sleep until the sun sets and it’s time to go out and do it all again. 

Montparnasse can’t breathe, the lights are too bright and the air too thick. 

Tall-guy chooses that moment to grope clumsily at his crotch and maybe he notices how totally not into it Montparnasse is or maybe he’s just an asshole because he pulls back and says, “I’m not going to do all the work here you know.”

Montparnasse smiles saccharinely and knees him in the balls.  
  
Gueulemer is sitting near the bar gazing into his drink with a dejected look on his face.

“Where’s Bizarro,” Montparnasse asks, sidling up beside him.

“Dancing,” Gueulemer says, blinking up at him in surprise. “I thought you were leaving?” 

“Not with that fucker,” Montparnasse shrugs. “We probably should head out though,” he adds, flashing Gueulemer a glimpse of the billfold he’d snuck out of the guys back pocket, “I may have caused a tiny scene.” 

Gueulemer grins and stands up, points out Bizarro dancing a head taller than everyone around her in her heels and they wind their way through the crowd to her side.

“We’re leaving,” Montparnasse has to practically stand on his toes to shout in her ear.

“Where’s your friend?” 

“Not interested,” he says and she stares at him incredulously before linking their arms, grabbing Gueulemer by the waist and marching out of the club.  
  
“Ok,” she says, once they’re out of the front door and halfway down the street, barging through groups of drunk students like a battering ram. “What the fuck?”

“What?” if her grip wasn’t so tight Montparnasse would shake her off, but it’s easier to escape a bear trap than Bizarro on a mission. 

“You weren’t interested? That guy was hot, gullible and easy. Exactly your type.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes, but he can’t argue with the accuracy.

“You’ve been acting weird all night. What’s happened, are you sick?”

“No, I’m not sick.” 

“Are you sure? Does it burn when you pee?”

“Fucking hell, Biz,” Gueulemer groans.

“I do not have an STD,” Montparnasse snarls.

“Then why aren’t you off getting ploughed by tall dark and stupid back there?”

“I’m just not in the mood.”

Bizarro stops in her tracks, letting go of Gueulemer so suddenly that he almost trips.

“You’re not in the mood,” she says, giving Montparnasse the side eye.

“No? What’s the big deal, I can’t have a night off?”  
  
“Parnasse,” Bizarro says with faux gentleness, “I adore you, but you are a deeply damaged young man who uses sex to process trauma and fill the void in your life that normal people fill with love and healthy relationships. If you’re not sleeping around, I have a right to be worried.”

“Harsh,” Gueulemer mutters.

Montparnasse yanks his arm free.  
  
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve got higher priorities lately than getting fucked by narcissistic gym rats who care more about watching their own stupid orgasm faces in the mirror than if the person they’ve got their dick in actually enjoys themself,” he snaps at her, his voice too loud.

Bizarro is quiet, her face unusually serious.

“Maybe I just want to go home for once and not spend tomorrow feeling like shit for throwing myself at yet another selfish asshole then waiting around for them to pass out after so I can steal cash from their nightstand before I sneak out. Sorry if that’s not _fun_ enough for you, but I’ve been a bit distracted lately what with getting beat up by thugs and that fucker Thénardier lurking around again and Claquesous-”

Montparnasse cuts himself off, he’s breathing hard and his chest is tightening up again. He rubs it absently. Something brushes his arm and he jumps, but it’s just Gueulemer. He slowly wraps his arms around Montparnasse’s shoulders, tugging him into a warm hug.

Montparnasse lets out a shaky breath and feels Bizarro step up behind him, relaxes into the both of them as she winds her arms around him as well.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into Gueulemer’s chest.

“It’s alright chéri,” Bizarro soothes. “You’re alright.”

This has to be Éponine’s fault, Montparnasse thinks. Her and fucking Grantaire with their romance bullshit. Sure, he’s stressed, but that’s nothing new. He’d been getting by perfectly well living a life of senseless hedonism and meaningless no-strings sex until they started going on about _happiness_ and _love_.

Now here he is having a meltdown in the middle of the street in front of a bunch of poorly dressed tourists who never learned it’s rude to stare.

“Come on,” Bizarro says, linking their arms together again. “Let’s go back to ours and we’ll get you good and drunk.”

Montparnasse sighs. “Sounds good,” he says and lets them lead him away.

~

Montparnasse is roused from sleep by the infernal shrieking of the damned.

“Jesus fuck,” he sputters, sitting bolt upright on the couch and clutching his aching head. The shutters are half open spilling golden morning light into the room, dust motes dancing in the beams. Montparnasse hisses and squints against the glare.

“Shut your fucking phone up,” Gueulemer slurs from the doorway, “before I throw it out the window.”

Montparnasse snarls something indecipherable and fumbles in his discarded jacket pocket for his mobile phone. Gueulemer flips him off and stumbles back to his room. 

“Éponine says you’re not coming on Saturday,” Grantaire says when he picks up.

“Good morning, R,” Montparnasse collapses back on the couch and slings his free arm over his face, “how are you?”

“You have to come, it’s my birthday,” Grantaire continues like he didn’t even hear him.

“I’m still meeting you for breakfast on Sunday,” Montparnasse says. It’s a tradition: hungover brunch and day drinking, getting pleasantly trashed and wandering around the galleries. They’ve done it almost every year since they first met.  
  
“Parnasse,” Grantaire whines, “please, you have to come out with us.”

“Why?” Montparnasse asks flatly, trying to breathe through the nausea of a dozen questionable looking shots Bizarro had forced down his throat threatening to make a reappearance.

“Enjolras will be there.”

“That’s really not an incentive for me.” 

“No,” Grantaire makes a distressed sound, “you don’t- _Enjolras_ will _be_ there. He’s coming out with us. He- I don’t know how- but he found out we were all going out and I hadn’t invited him, obviously, because I never thought he’d come but then he asked me about it and he looked all- all _hurt_ and shit, like-” he cuts himself off with a quiet, garbled scream.

“So you invited him?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, muffled like he’s got his face pressed into a pillow.

“And he said yes.”

“Evidently.”

“So, Enjolras is coming to your birthday,” Montparnasse clarifies, “and this… upsets you?”

“Don’t be deliberately fucking obtuse, Montparnasse,” Grantaire says. “What am I going to do?”  
  
Montparnasse heaves an audible sigh.

“Well,” he says, “you’re going to have to find something decent to wear, for a start.”

“Help me?” Grantaire whimpers.

“Fine. But you owe me.”

“You’re a good friend, even if I do have to emotionally blackmail you into spending time with me.”  
  
Montparnasse hangs up on him and goes back to sleep.

He wakes briefly to a hand ruffling his hair and Bizarro pressing a kiss to his forehead as she heads out to work. He takes the opportunity to gulp down the glass of orange juice she left for him on the floor beside the couch before shoving his jacket over his head and sinking back into blissful unconsciousness. 

When he finally wakes up properly it’s past three in the afternoon and Gueulemer is in the kitchen making shakshouka.

“Is there coffee?” Montparnasse asks, sitting up and rubbing at his face where the zip of his leather jacket has imprinted onto his cheek. Gueulemer gestures at the pot on the table with his spatula, spattering drops of tomato sauce across the cabinets. 

Gueulemer is a fantastic cook but he leaves a trail of destruction behind him for every meal he makes. Montparnasse elbows him out the way and picks tentatively through the sink of dirty dishes for something to drink his coffee out of.

“Heard from Babet?” he asks, sipping at the too-strong brew and rolling his sleeves up to start washing up.

“Yeah,” Gueulemer says, “nothing on tonight.”

“Ugh, thank fuck,” Montparnasse fishes a pair of abandoned and dusty washing up gloves from under the sink and pulls them on, ignoring Gueulemer’s mocking snort. “I’m so fucking hungover.”

He fills the sink with hot water and unearths a sponge that’s only partly mouldy from under a saucepan.

“Food’s nearly ready,” Gueulemer says, chopping up a bunch of coriander and spilling half of it across the stove top. “Who was on the phone earlier?”

“R,” Montparnasse says, scrubbing at a pan caked in something blackened and sticky.

“Of course,” Gueulemer mutters darkly. “What did he want?”

“He wants me to go out with them next weekend for his birthday.”

“Seriously?” Gueulemer turns away from the stove and raises an incredulous eyebrow, “After what happened last year?”

Montparnasse shrugs, “ _Enjolras_ is going to be there,” he says and Gueulemer makes a disgruntled noise.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Or, better idea, bring me and Biz.”

“You should come anyway.”

“I just might. Sit down,” Gueulemer says, reaching across the sink for a couple of freshly washed plates, “breakfast time.” 

They eat in companionable silence at the battered kitchen table. Montparnasse cleans the kitchen when they’re done and then takes advantage of the huge tub in their bathroom, filling it with the sweet-scented oils and salts Bizarro hoards. He soaks until his fingers prune, Gueulemer’s shouts echoing through the door occasionally as he plays video games. 

When he gets out he steals one of Bizarro’s ragged band shirts and a pair of Gueulemer’s sweatpants, tripping over the ends until he finally gives in and rolls them up.

“Do you have any painkillers?” he asks Gueulemer, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My head’s still killing me. I think one of those shots had actual gasoline in it.”

“If we do they’re probably in the bathroom,” Gueulemer replies, not looking up from the tv.

“I couldn’t see anything but estradiol and antacids in there.”

“You’re out of luck then. Drink some more water.”

Montparnasse joins Gueulemer on the couch and they sit around binge watching Netflix- Montparnasse has Grantaire’s password, he never remembers to change it- until the sun is setting and their hangovers are finally abating.

They’re just starting to throw around dinner plans, Gueulemer wants to order pizza, Montparnasse is craving something loaded with sugar like he always does when he’s drunk too much, when there’s a knock at the door.

“We expecting company?” Montparnasse asks when they both sit up and stare over the back of the couch towards the door.

“Nope,” Gueulemer says, checking his phone. “Biz has keys.”

Montparnasse mutes the television and they look back at the door. Gueulemer’s phone buzzes loudly in the silence and he jumps, opening the message and staring at the screen.

“Fuck,” he says, tossing the phone to Montparnasse and lurching out of his seat.

_You better not be watching Mr. Robot without me_ the message reads, from an unknown number. 

Montparnasse frowns but follows Gueulemer to the front door. He yanks it open and freezes.

Montparnasse gets up on his toes and leans around his shoulders to see what’s happening, why he’s just standing there.

Claquesous nods at him from the hallway, hood up, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere around Gueulemer’s left shoulder.  
  
“Where the fuck have you been?” Montparnasse blurts out.

“Germany,” Claquesous says, voice neutral and offering no other information.

“What the fuck,” Gueulemer’s voice cracks when he speaks. 

“What were you doing in fucking _Germany_?” Montparnasse asks and Claquesous shifts very slightly from foot to foot.

“Can we go inside? This isn’t really a hallway conversation.”

Montparnasse drags Gueulemer out of the doorway and back over the couch, pushing him into his seat. He’s staring at Claquesous like he’s seen a ghost.

“You, sit.” Montparnasse orders Claquesous into the seat next to Gueulemer.

“Isn’t that Bizarro’s t-shirt?” Claquesous asks. “You know she hates when you steal her clothes.”

“She’ll get over it. Why were you in Germany?”  
  
Claquesous’ eyes flicker to Gueulemer and away. “I-” he clears his throat. “I was in the hospital.”

Gueulemer makes a distressed noise in his throat and his hands twitch like he wants to reach for him.

“In Germany?” Montparnasse frowns.

“Yes. In Germany.” Claquesous gives him a meaningful look.

“Why?”

“Fuck me, you’re slow on the uptake today,” Claquesous rolls his eyes. “I was having surgery. That I couldn’t have here, because I got turned away? Twice?”  
  
“Oh,” Montparnasse can’t help but automatically glance at Claquesous’ chest. He’s wearing his usual thousand layers of clothing, there’s no way to tell if there’s no binder underneath.  
  
Claquesous glares and crosses his arms, slouching deeper into the couch cushions. “Stop it.”  
  
“Sorry,” Montparnasse sits down heavily on the chair opposite them.

“Are you- how are you?” Gueulemer asks, breaking his silence.

“Fine,” Claquesous says, not meeting his eyes.

“Question,” Montparnasse interjects, leaning forward with one finger raised, “why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell us what you were doing?”

Claquesous shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I- I didn’t want- Look. It took a lot of work to get everything sorted. I had to use my real name, and transfer my records across and everything. The fewer people who knew about it, the simpler it was. It was easier to just, get on with it.”  
  
“But you didn’t text us,” Gueulemer says. “Didn’t even leave a note.”  
  
“I got back this morning. I came straight here.”

“Ok,” Montparnasse gestures incredulously, “but you just show up like: _‘Oh, I was in the hospital’_ with no other information? After ignoring us for over a _month?”_

“I was recovering from surgery,” Claquesous says, belligerent.

“Right! Surgery which you told no one about!” The tiny twitch at the corner of Claquesous’ mouth means he’s confused. “You fucker, do you have any idea how worried we all were?”

“I couldn’t do any jobs, couldn’t even lift my arms above my head. What was the point in texting you?” 

“So we would know you were alive, asshole,” Gueulemer says and the hurt in his voice is audible. “Have you been on your own this whole time?” he looks devastated at the thought.

“It was fine,” Claquesous says, “I’m fine.”

“We would have helped you out, man,” Gueulemer shakes his head. “I would have gone with you. We both would.”

Claquesous scowls at his knees. “I know,” he says quietly, “but shit’s been busy and Babet needed you here.”

“Did she know?” Montparnasse sits bolt upright. “Did she fucking know where you were this whole time?”  
  
“No, I didn’t tell anyone.”  
  
“Yeah, and what the fuck is up with that?” Gueulemer says, voice rising.

Claquesous’ jaw works as he stares at his lap.

“Seriously, you just disappeared,” Montparnasse adds quietly, “we didn’t know if you’d been arrested or got jumped or anything.”

Claquesous sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t think you’d freak out.”

“Fuck,” Gueulemer breathes and very carefully pulls Claquesous into his arms.

“You’re family, you absolute shit,” Montparnasse says. “You’re never bothering us.”

“We love you,” Gueulemer adds, quietly, and Claquesous’s hands tighten on the back of his jumper. 

When Bizarro gets home from work, arms full of pizza and patisseries for Montparnasse’s ‘disgusting sweet-tooth’, she takes one look at Claquesous and shrieks, flinging the food at Gueulemer and throwing her arms around his neck.

“Christ, take it easy Zarbi,” Claquesous mutters but he smiles, hugging her back.

“Putain de merde,” Bizarro says, voice all choked up like she might cry, “t’es en vrai un branleur. Do you have any, _any_ idea how worried we were.”

Claquesous winces. “I’m sorry.”

“You better be,” Bizarro pulls back and ruffles his hair. “Do not ever fucking do that to me again.” She wipes her eyes and sighs. “You three are going to be the death of me, I swear. I expect a full explanation, but first I want to eat some pizza before I pass out, I’m starving.”  
  
“I’ll get plates,” Gueulemer says, juggling pizza boxes and throwing Montparnasse his bag of pastries.

Bizarro kicks her shoes off and sprawls lazily across the love-seat.

“Voleuse,” Gueulemer pouts when he returns from the kitchen, passing her and Claquesous a plate each and perching on the arm of the chair. Montparnasse and Claquesous exchange smug glances on the other couch.

“So where were you?” Bizarro asks, piling her plate high with pizza.

Any hint of smugness vanishes from Claquesous’s face. “Germany,” he says, sinking lower in his seat.

Bizarro freezes with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. “Claquesous. Did you seriously leave the country to go get top surgery _on your own_ without telling anyone?”  
  
“Um,” Claquesous says, staring at his feet.  
  
“You told Biz but not us?” Gueulemer says, sounding betrayed.

Claquesous rests his head in his hands. “I am so uncomfortable talking about this.”

“Sorry,” Bizarro says, not sounding sorry at all, “but what the fuck man? You never said anything about _that_ part of the plan.”

Claquesous makes a regretful sound from under his hood.  
  
“Ok, that’s enough,” Montparnasse says and Claquesous shoots him a grateful look.

“Don’t think this is over, Sous,” Bizarro says with her mouth full. “We will be having words. But since we’re changing the subject, did Montparnasse tell you about his epic fuck up last week?”

“Shut up, Sabine.”

“No,” Claquesous quirks an eyebrow. “He did not.”

“Do not first name me, _Lucien_.”

“It’s not a great story,” Gueulemer says, passing Claquesous the vegetarian pizza.

“It’s really not,” Montparnasse flicks a flaked almond at Bizarro.

“These two useless lumps got jumped by Lapointe's dickhead friends. Parnasse got the crap knocked out of him with a crowbar.”  
  
“Baseball bat,” Gueulemer corrects, under his breath.

“Baseball bat, excuse me. That’s even funnier, to be honest babe.”

Claquesous puts his plate down and frowns. “How the fuck did that happen?”  
  
“Look, ok. We fucked up,” Montparnasse says waving his slightly stale almond croissant. “It’s been known to happen. We handled it.”  
  
“You handled it,” Claquesous repeats.  
  
“They handled it alright,” Bizarro shakes her head. “They handled them right into the back of Homère’s van. And presumably from there into an empty building site somewhere in Aubervilliers.”

“La Chapelle, actually,” Montparnasse mutters.

Claquesous stares at him.

“How are your ribs feeling today, Parnasse?” Bizarro asks with an evil smile.

“Tattle-tale,” Montparnasse hisses at her.

“This is why you shouldn’t just go gallivanting off without a word, they fall apart without you.”

Gueulemer and Montparnasse both busy themselves with their food, not willing to argue the point.

“How could you walk into such an obvious setup?”

“To be fair,” Gueulemer points out quietly, “we had a lot on our minds.”

Claquesous drops the subject but when Montparnasse heads to the kitchen to get a drink and wash the sticky powdered sugar off his hands, he follows him.

“I should have been there.”

Montparnasse sighs. “It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“I fucked this up, didn’t I?”  
  
Montparnasse leans against the kitchen table sipping his water and Claquesous hops up next to him, looking through to where Gueulemer’s fiddling around on Bizarro’s computer.

“She didn’t even yell at me,” Claquesous says quietly, watching Bizarro pick mushrooms off her pizza. “You guys were really worried.”

“Yes, asshole, we were.”

“I’m sorry,” Claquesous leans against him ever so slightly.  
  
“Look, seriously. Please don’t do it again,” Montparnasse says, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “You know we’re fine with giving you space, but just- tell us if you’re taking off somewhere for that long. Or text us or something. I’ve never seen Gueulemer like that before, it wasn’t good.”

“I will.” Claquesous looks over to where Gueulemer’s sitting and starts when their eyes meet, Gueulemer looking down and away quickly. 

“Planning to finally do something about that?” Montparnasse asks under his breath and Claquesous pinches him hard on the arm.

“Fuck off.”

They head back to the couch before Gueulemer can move to claim it. 

“So, we’re all going out next weekend, right?” Bizarro asks. “Celebrate the return of our prodigal son? I’m working Friday at the bar, but Saturday works for everyone, yeah?”  
  
“Montparnasse can’t,” Gueulemer says, “he’s going out for R’s birthday.”

Bizarro turns her head very slowly to stare at Montparnasse while he glares at Gueulemer.

“Thanks.”  
  
“You fucking _what?_ ” Bizarro asks.  
  
“I-”  
  
“After what happened last year?” Claquesous adds and Gueulemer laughs.

Montparnasse flips them off. “All of you can go to hell.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s the three of us who are going to be in hell,” Bizarro shakes her head, face solemn with over exaggerated pity. “Well. Good luck with the social justice crew, Parnasse. From what I’ve seen you’re going to fucking need it.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder who else will be going to Grantaire's birthday...?
> 
> I just want to say how much it means to me that that you all have taken the time to read this story and leave comments and kudos, you're the best and I love each and every one of you! I was not expecting to get such an amazing response to this fic and silly as it may sound it's been a light at the end of a really dark year. Thank you ❤️ I hope you all have safe and enjoyable holidays!  
> Next update will be the 6th of January.
> 
> Translations:  
> Feuk - (impolite) slang for police  
> Mon Dieu - My God  
> McDo’s - McDonald's  
> Frites - fries/chips  
> Bánh mì - delicious Vietnamese sandwiches  
> Cimetière - cemetery (Père Lachaise, in this case)  
> Collège - school/middle school  
> Merde - shit  
> Première - junior year/year 12  
> Ferme ta gueule - STFU  
> Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien - Nothing ventured, nothing gained  
> Hein? - yeah?/huh?  
> Bonne Maman - jam  
> Petit Écolier - addictive/creepy chocolate biscuits  
> Shakshouka - [the best hangover cure in the world](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakshouka)  
> Putain de merde - holy shit  
> t’es en vrai un branleur - you're a real wanker  
> Voleuse - thief


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has [ART!](http://meidiama.tumblr.com/post/155571514483/youre-seriously-missing-out-some-great-writing-if) by the incredibly lovely Mei, go check out their drawings they're amazing!

Saturday rolls around with a kind of terrible inevitability.

It’s been a long, quiet week. Montparnasse can finally breathe without feeling like his chest is going to cave in, which means he can finally smoke again and that alone goes a long way to improving his mood, but he’s still restless. Antsy. Every day he’s been getting texts from Grantaire, the levels of dread and anticipation ramping up with each message.

Montparnasse has not reached the dizzying heights of panic that Grantaire seems to be permanently stuck in, but he’s still not especially looking forward to a night out with all of Les Amis. Not least because Éponine is working Saturday night and therefore unavailable as back up and Cosette and Marius have begged off as well, for reasons Montparnasse isn’t particularly interested in asking about.

Montparnasse is also uncomfortably aware that he would not be putting himself through this debacle for practically anyone else. At some point over the past few years Grantaire crawled under his skin like a determined wine-soaked tick and lodged there. He tries not to think about it too much, spends Saturday morning lazing around the apartment deep conditioning his hair with his phone on silent before heading out to get the metro to Gare du Nord.

Grantaire used to move a lot, almost as often as Claquesous, until last year when he’d washed up with a couple of the Amis group. The building he lives in now is nice, in a better area of the 10eme than Montparnasse had expected. With the three of them, he supposes, the rent is easier to cover.

Montparnasse has never met any of Grantaire’s flatmates.

When they’d hooked up it was usually at Montparnasse and Éponine’s apartment, the walls were thicker there than some of the awful places Grantaire has lived in and Éponine didn’t care as long as they didn’t wake her up.

The person who answers the door looks vaguely familiar. They’re short with shiny dark hair, kind of cute even if they are wearing a cardigan that is several sizes too large over a t-shirt that reads _“aucun cuillères, couteaux seulement laissé”_.

Montparnasse has no idea where he’s seen them before.

“Um, hello?” they say, blinking anxiously up at Montparnasse and fiddling with the arm of their glasses.

“Hi.” They look at each other for a long moment. “Can I come in or are we just going to stand here?” 

“Thank god you’re here,” Grantaire appears before the flatmate can answer and if they look nervous, Grantaire is a wreck. “Joly, this is Montparnasse. Montparnasse, Joly.”

Joly, Bahorel’s friend. With the cane and the asshole guy in the bar, he remembers. 

“Nice to meet you,” Montparnasse shoots them a wry smile as Grantaire catches hold of the front of his coat and drags him through the apartment into his bedroom, which is even more of a disaster zone than usual. 

Montparnasse picks his way through piles of discarded clothes, books and art supplies to sit on the edge of the bed while Grantaire hovers at his side.

“Joyeux Anniversaire?” Montparnasse offers and Grantaire makes a frustrated noise, clutching at his hair.

“Thanks.”

“Calm down for fucks sake, you’re going to give yourself an aneurysm.” Montparnasse nudges the nearest pile of clothes with his foot. “Have you found an outfit for tonight?”

Grantaire kicks him in the shin. “Does it look like I’ve found an outfit?” 

He’s shirtless and wearing pyjama pants that Montparnasse knows for a fact once belonged to Éponine before he stole them from her and Grantaire stole them from him.

“Well, it’s a bit Marc Jacobs, but if anyone could pull off déshabillé chic it’d be you,” Montparnasse says, leaning back on his elbows on the rumpled sheets.

“Why are you like this?” Grantaire gripes. “Why did I think asking you for help was a good idea?”

“Who else were you going to ask?” Montparnasse manages to sound playful and not at all sarcastic, which is an achievement. Grantaire barely seems to notice.

“Just tell me which one?” he grabs two button-up shirts from the top of the pile and brandishes them at Montparnasse. They’re both atrociously wrinkled, one looks like it would be at least two sizes too small and the other is a hideous paisley. 

“Neither,” Montparnasse curls his lip. “You’d be better off in what you’re wearing now.”

Grantaire slumps to the floor on top of the pile of discarded clothes.

“You’re right,” he says, “it’s hopeless. I’m a lost cause. Maybe I won’t go, I think I’ll just stay here all night. You’ll get drunk with me here, right?” 

Montparnasse rolls his eyes and heaves his bag onto the bed beside him.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” he says. “I came prepared.” 

Montparnasse pulls out two pairs of jeans and studies them critically before throwing the darker denim wash at Grantaire who fumbles but catches them. He’s not so quick with the t-shirt that follows, it smacks him in the face and he squeaks.

“Put those on,” Montparnasse orders, shrugging out of his coat and settling back against the wall. Grantaire stands and strips out of the pyjamas. “Underwear off too,” Montparnasse instructs and Grantaire shoots him a look but obeys, kicking them off as well. 

The jeans are a tighter fit than Grantaire usually wears, most of his are shapeless and paint stained. He has to shimmy to get them up over his thighs and Montparnasse smirks when Grantaire catches him watching.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, doing the button up and shaking loose curls out of his face.

“Seen it all before,” Montparnasse says drily. “Put the shirt on.”

The t-shirt is a masterpiece. It’s very soft white cotton, worn so thin Grantaire’s tattoos are visible through the fabric. It stretches over his shoulders, cuts lower than usual around the neck, draping over his collar bones, and it clings. There’s a tiny hole over Grantaire’s left hipbone that flashes a glimpse of skin when he moves. 

“Why are you making that face?” Grantaire asks nervously, tugging at the neck of the shirt and rolling his shoulders.

“What face?”

“The _‘I’m about to stab you or blow you I just haven’t decided which yet’_ face.”

“If I aim for your liver,” Montparnasse muses, “maybe they’ll find you a fresh one.”

“Speaking of,” Grantaire says, “if I’m going to wear this shit in public I need to be way less sober.

“You look great.”

Grantaire turns sideways to peer at his reflection in the mirror that’s half hidden behind a bunch of canvases leaned against the wall. “I felt less naked in the pyjamas.”

When they venture back out into the apartment Joly, who had been sitting at the table on their laptop with headphones in, does an actual double take.

“Told you,” Montparnasse says smugly and ducks when Grantaire reaches out to smack him in the back of the head.

Grantaire’s other flatmate arrives home by the time they’ve put a few drinks away. He’s tall with nice eyes and an easy smile and he beams at Grantaire when he sees what he’s wearing.

“Very nice,” he says to Montparnasse, leaning over the table to kiss Joly hello. “You should dress him all the time.”

“Do not encourage him, Bossuet,” Grantaire points a threatening finger, “this is a one-time thing.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Montparnasse mutters into his glass and Joly chokes on a mouthful of tea. 

“I told some of the others to come over here before we go out,” Bossuet says. “They should be here soon.”

“Is-”

“No, Enjolras isn’t coming,” Bossuet cuts Grantaire off before he can work himself up. “He’s meeting us later, at the club.”

“Ok,” Grantaire says and drains his entire glass in one go.

“Slow down,” Montparnasse steals the bottle before he can refill it. “If you spill red wine on that shirt before we even leave I will not be happy.”  
  
Joly and Bossuet are good company, Montparnasse can see why Grantaire would choose to live with them. The thee of them work together to distract Grantaire from his anxiety about the night ahead, casually steering the conversation onto benign topics, and Montparnasse finds he’s actually enjoying himself.

“You know what you need,” he says during a lull in the conversation, swirling his glass of wine and leaning back in his chair.

“No?” Grantaire shoots him a wary look.

“Eyeliner.”

Bossuet, who had been leaning over Joly’s shoulders reading an article on the laptop, perks up. “Yes!” he says, delighted.

“No,” Grantaire shakes his head, pushing his chair back from the table.

“Yes,” Joly nods solemnly.

“The people have spoken,” Montparnasse sets his wineglass down and stands as well, stalking after Grantaire as he retreats into the other room.

“My face is not a democracy.”

“Tch,” Montparnasse scolds, “what would Enjolras say?”

“That the bloated corpse of the centre-left is a blight upon the face of true liberation. And also that I look stupid in makeup.”

“Yeah, well,” Montparnasse corners Grantaire with a smile, “he’s full of shit, so. Sit.” He shoves Grantaire down onto the couch.

“Do I need to safeword,” Grantaire doesn’t resist when Montparnasse moves to straddle his hips and settles firmly on his lap. “I think maybe I do,” he says, eyeing the kohl pencil Montparnasse produces with a flourish.

“Stop fussing, we’ve done this before.” 

Bossuet, who has, along with Joly, followed them in to watch the show, tries to hide his laugh by coughing. Grantaire flips him off without looking. 

Montparnasse holds Grantaire’s chin with one hand, uncaps the eyeliner with his teeth and spits the lid away.

“Don’t stab me in the eyeball,” Grantaire says, mouth barely moving with the effort of keeping still.

“Please,” Montparnasse drawls, “there are faster ways to put you out of your misery.”

“You’re sort of terrifying,” Joly says in an awed voice.

“Thank you,” Montparnasse grins at them and then leans in to carefully apply smokey black to Grantaire’s lower lash lines. “Close your eyes,” he says once he’s done both sides and traces along his upper lids as well. 

He’s softening and smudging the liner carefully with the tip of one finger when there’s a knock at the door and Bossuet, who had perched beside Grantaire on the arm of the couch to watch in quiet fascination, gets up to answer it.

“Ok, open your eyes,” Montparnasse sits back to observe his work as excited voices filter through from the hallway.

“Do I look ridiculous?” Grantaire asks Joly who shakes their head.

“You look delicious,” Montparnasse pronounces, twirling the eyeliner like a flick knife between his fingers. 

“I agree,” a familiar voice says and Montparnasse nearly flings the pencil across the room. “You look lovely, R,” Jehan adds and leans over the back of the couch to kiss Grantaire’s cheek. 

Jehan’s hair is loose, tumbling over Grantaire’s shoulder in a curtain of perfumed copper silk, close enough that Montparnasse could reach out and run his fingers through it. They’re wearing a long floaty skirt and a crop top that flashes a glimpse of soft, freckled tummy when they straighten up and Montparnasse wonders if he’ll ever cross paths with them when he’s not in some sort of horrifyingly compromising position.

“Merci, Jehan,” Grantaire says in a falsely peppy tone, “you remember Montparnasse, don’t you?”

Montparnasse shifts so he can dig the bony edges of his kneecaps into Grantaire’s hips, since he can’t glare at him while Jehan is watching.

“Hello again,” Jehan says with a smile and fuck, Montparnasse had thought he’d remembered how gorgeous they are but his drunken recollections pale in comparison to the real thing.

“Hi,” he manages not to stutter or blush or stab Grantaire in the neck with the eyeliner pencil he’s still clutching in one hand when the fucker laughs at him.

“You!” someone shouts. Montparnasse blinks, apparently that's directed at him.

Just inside the doorway, with one finger pointing dramatically at the couch, is Marius Pontmercy’s flatmate. The glittery hipster. He of the Hufflepuff pyjamas.

“Hey Courf,” Grantaire says, eyes sparkling with vindictive delight, “you’ve met Montparnasse before too, I think?”

“What is he doing here?” Courfeyrac demands. Now he’s not dressed in Harry Potter sleepwear Montparnasse can’t help but notice that he’d be passably attractive, that's if he wasn’t puffed up with rabid indignation.

“I invited him,” Grantaire says, hands wrapped around Montparnasse’s thighs so he can’t escape. 

Courfeyrac makes an outraged sound.

“Come on,” Jehan wraps a cajoling hand around Courfeyrac’s elbow and pulls him away towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you a drink.” 

“Well,” Grantaire says, “this is turning out to be a fun birthday after all.”

“I hate you,” Montparnasse wriggles free of his grip and slides onto the couch at his side. “I can’t go in there now, I hope you realise,” he gazes woefully towards the kitchen. “I left my drink on the table.”

Grantaire pats him on the shoulder condescendingly. “Cheer up,” he says, “if I can survive this night on spite and schadenfreude alone then so can you.”

Montparnasse leans his head back against the couch and debates calling Gueulemer. 

He and Claquesous have spent the past week practically surgically attached at the hip. Tonight they’re planning to get drunk and watch schlocky Italian horror films, Claquesous’s favourite. It would be cute, how they can’t stand to let each other out of their sight, if it wasn’t so incredibly irritating when both of them refuse to acknowledge it.

Montparnasse hadn’t been able to bring himself to beg them to come along to what he was sure was going to be a travesty of an evening. They deserve a break. Maybe they’d be willing to join them for a few drinks though, he thinks now, or maybe he could just sneak out when no one’s watching and go hang out with them.

“Don’t even think about it,” Grantaire wraps an arm around his shoulders and pins him in his seat. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

“You know me so well,” Montparnasse mutters. “I hate that.” 

Joly appears like a heaven-sent messenger a minute later with his glass of wine.

“Thought you might want this,” they say. 

“Thank you,” Montparnasse takes it with a smile and spends a few seconds pondering how monogamous their relationship with Bossuet might be.

“Stop it,” Grantaire tugs at a strand of his hair. “You are not seducing any more of my friends.” 

Joly coughs and flusters and flees for the kitchen.

“You’re the worst,” Montparnasse leans his head into Grantaire’s hand and sips his drink.   
  
Grantaire, really leaning into his role as the worst, seems to take particular malicious joy in how uncomfortable Montparnasse is pretending not to be.

Once everyone is set up with drinks they join Grantaire and Montparnasse on the couches and he spends an extremely awkward hour trying not to stare too obviously at Jehan where they’re tucked in between Joly and Courfeyrac while Grantaire smirks.

It gets worse, because every time he turns around Courfeyrac is there, scowling at him like an overprotective parent. Montparnasse normally wouldn’t care, but Jehan seems to be avoiding his eyes as much as Montparnasse is trying not to catch theirs.

More than once he looks over to see Courfeyrac whispering angrily in their ear and more than once Jehan has avoided meeting his gaze.

It’s… whatever. He wasn’t expecting any different if he ever did see them again, really. It was a nice idea, that someone like Jehan would think of someone like him as anything other than a drunken mistake, an itch scratched.

Montparnasse frowns to himself, he’s starting to sound like Grantaire and that’s never a good sign.

“I’m going out for a cigarette,” he says to Bossuet who nods. There’s no smoking in the apartment because of Joly’s chemical sensitivities, so he fetches his jacket from Grantaire’s room and heads downstairs to the street.

He’s just lighting up, hair falling in his eyes as he touches the tip of his cigarette to the flame, when the front door opens and Jehan slips out into the darkness. They’ve got a black beaded kimono-shawl thing on instead of a proper coat and they shiver a little in the evening air.

Jehan’s wearing dark lipstick tonight, a rich purple-red that makes their freckles stand out. The rest of their face is bare again and the contrast is startling. They look unearthly, unnerving. Montparnasse wants to press his thumb to their lower lip and find out if the colour will smudge or if it will stay. It would look terribly pretty smeared across their cheeks, dark marks on pale sheets, traces like bruises on his neck and chest.

Montparnasse takes a drag of his cigarette, tilts his head up towards the sky.

“Hi,” Jehan comes over to stand beside him, “can we talk?”

“Of course,” Montparnasse says, toying with the lid of his zippo. 

This, Montparnasse is relatively certain, is where Jehan tells him they’re sorry but they’re not interested and would he mind terribly never talking about it again and leaving them alone?

“I wanted to apologise.”

Montparnasse pauses with his cigarette halfway to his lips, sometimes he hates always being right. “What for?”

“At the party, at your place,” Jehan says, fingers winding distractedly in the fabric of their skirt, “I kissed you.”

Montparnasse blinks at them. _I kissed you_ has different implications than _you kissed me_ , it’s not what he’d expected to hear. 

Jehan had kissed him, true enough, but Montparnasse had paved the way for it, had all but put a sign up in neon: _Let’s Make Out_. If Jehan hadn’t have kissed him first, he certainly would have made a move himself as soon as he’d had the chance.

“You kissed me,” he agrees, instead of pointing all that out. 

_Do you want to do it again?_ he thinks about asking, thinks of leaning in to them, pinning them against the wall, sliding a knee between their thighs and tasting plum tinted lips.

“I’d had a lot to drink,” Jehan continues, looking down and away, and that successfully kills the warm hum of arousal he’d felt just seconds before stone dead. “I just wanted to-”

“It’s fine,” Montparnasse cuts them off. He’s really not interested in suffering through this conversation. “Forget about it.”

Jehan frowns slightly, “But I-”

Montparnasse waves them away. “It never happened,” he says and takes a drag on his cigarette. 

Jehan is just starting to reply when the front door bursts open and Courfeyrac appears like a vengeful guard dog, followed more sedately by Grantaire and Bossuet who are grinning and Joly who is wearing a winter coat, a knitted beanie and two scarves despite the relatively mild weather.

“Time to go,” Bossuet says, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

Montparnasse pushes away from the wall and falls into step with Grantaire who links arms with him and leans in.

“Did we interrupt?” he grins.  
  
“Faire taire, R,” Montparnasse shoves him off the pavement.

~

“Why are we going to a club anyway, why not a bar?”

Montparnasse taps his foot impatiently as the line inches slowly along towards the hulking bouncer who eyes each prospective reveller critically, as though his tacky velvet rope guards the gates of Elysium itself rather than a downmarket Oberkampf club.

“You hate clubs. I have listened to you pontificate at great length about how much you hate clubs and your reasoning on this one thing is actually unusually sound.”

Grantaire shrugs awkwardly avoiding his eyes and Montparnasse’s suspicion is piqued.

“It was absolutely going to be bar, wasn’t it? But you changed the plan. Why? Because of Enjolras?”  
  
“Shh, ta gueule!” Grantaire hisses, glancing over at Courfeyrac who is hovering nearby, still scowling at Montparnasse. “I panicked, ok?” he runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Clubs are loud and there’s dancing. People like dancing. At least this way it won’t turn into another meeting where everyone sits around laughing together while I am consigned to my corner where I drink alone and inevitably make a fool of myself.”

“Oh R,” Montparnasse shakes his head.

“Don’t _‘Oh R’_ me.”

Bahorel arrives then, Feuilly at his elbow, and the crowd of sycophantic hipsters parts in their wake.

“Come on you hopeless hapless lot,” Bahorel grins, “I’ll get you in.”

The monstrous bouncer waves them through when Bahorel greets him with a smile and a complicated looking handshake. Montparnasse is frankly grateful to be out of the street and makes straight for the closest bar, Grantaire hot on his heels.

“This is worse than I imagined,” Grantaire stares around at the heaving mass of young trendy drunk people.

Montparnasse catches his wrist in an iron grip and hauls him up to the bar, elbowing people indiscriminately in ribs and guts to clear the quickest path to the alcohol.

“You’re getting the first round,” he shouts in Grantaire’s ear over the shitty music.

“It’s my fucking birthday, asshole. You’re buying.”  
  
“If we leave right now and go find somewhere decent to drink, I’ll get your drinks all night,” Montparnasse offers.

Grantaire leans away from a couple passionately dry humping next to him and makes a face like he’s seriously considering it.

When Montparnasse looks over his shoulder to plot a path back out of the club the crowd parts and Jehan catches his eye, their expression placid, eyes dark under the flickering lights. It’s just a fleeting moment before people shift again, breaking the contact, but Montparnasse feels the weight of their gaze like it’s piercing straight through him.

He turns back to the bar. “Fuck it,” Montparnasse fixes the bartender with what he hopes is a passable come-hither look, drawing them over. “We’re getting shots. I’ll pay, I don’t care.”

Grantaire grins. “That’s the spirit.”

Half an hour and several shots later, Grantaire’s mood has taken a turn for the worse. Enjolras is nowhere to be seen and the week long anticipation once liberally doused with liquor has curdled, turned bitter.

“Il va pas venir,” Grantaire says with a mean little smile, “probably never meant to in the first place. I bet he said he would just to be polite. Or to fuck with me, who knows.”

Montparnasse stares at his full shot glass dismally, as though it might offer him an escape from this conversation.

“Actually, we just got here,” someone says from just behind them. 

“Shit, Combeferre,” Grantaire yelps, clutching his chest, “don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” the new guy smiles, not sounding very sorry at all. “Happy Birthday, R.”

It’s the sexy librarian-type Montparnasse has seen around the Musain before. He’s got his sleeves rolled up tonight, showing off an unexpected swirl of dark ink tracing up his forearms. Montparnasse thinks he can see moths and curling ferns with some kind of geometric pattern tying them all together. He knocks his shot back. Grantaire is friends with too many attractive people.

“Enjolras is over there,” Combeferre continues, turning to point over the crowd with the ease of the very tall. “Talking to Joly and Bahorel.”

Grantaire takes off like a fox on the scent of chickens. Montparnasse turns and leans against the bar to watch him go.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

“The levels of obliviousness?” Combeferre asks him.

“More like wilful ignorance.”

“Ferre!” Courfeyrac appears as if summoned, popping up at Combeferre’s side and glaring at Montparnasse. “Come dance! Don’t waste your time talking to him.” 

Combeferre smiles apologetically and lets Courfeyrac pull him away into the crowd looking helplessly charmed.

“Unbelievable,” Montparnasse says again and orders another shot.

Feuilly finds him soon after that, beer in hand and frowning. 

“What did you say to Jehan?” he asks, in lieu of a greeting and Montparnasse debates slamming his head against the bar until he passes out. It’s sticky though, and he doesn’t want to get that crap in his hair.

“Nothing,” he says instead. “I have said nothing to Jehan. They are safe from my dreadful influence, never fear.”

If it’s possible, Feuilly frowns harder. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“What am I _doing_?” Montparnasse repeats. “I’m not doing anything. Look, witness me, stood here, doing nothing. What do you want, Feuilly?” 

Feuilly looks at him for a long minute. “You’re an idiot,” he says and turns and walks away.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Montparnasse addresses his question to the gods, but it’s the bartender stood behind him pouring drinks who snorts a laugh at his expense. 

Montparnasse glares at them and slinks away.

Joly is sitting alone at a table looking bored. Montparnasse makes for them like they’re a port in a storm, the storm being the rest of their infuriating friends.

“Hey,” Montparnasse slides into the seat next to them and they smile. “Do you want to dance?” They don’t have their cane with them tonight so Montparnasse feels it’s probably alright to ask.  


Joly says something but it’s quiet, drowned out by the music. Montparnasse leans in closer to listen and they tilt their chin up to shout in his ear.  
  
“I’m saving my energy for later,” they say again and when Montparnasse gives them an amused look they blush. “I want to dance with Bossuet!”

“Sure,” Montparnasse leers. “I bet you do.”

Joly jostles him gently with their elbow and Montparnasse plucks at a badge on their jacket he hadn’t noticed before. It’s purple and it says “ _If you Gender me, you ain’t a Friend to me._ ”

“Bossuet made it for me,” Joly says, “I’m agender.”

“What pronouns do you use?” Montparnasse asks.  
  
“They/them, thanks,” Joly smiles. “What about you?”  
  
Montparnasse shrugs, “He is fine. I never really thought about it that much.” Which isn’t totally true, but Montparnasse isn’t getting into it with people he’s only just met.

Joly nods and Bossuet appears, hands full of drinks.

“Sorry!” he says, collapsing in the seat beside Joly. “I dropped a beer and had to go back for another one. The line was unreal.”  


“There’s no one there now?” Montparnasse points out. Over Bossuet’s shoulder the bar is deserted.

“Don’t,” Joly pats Bossuet on the shoulder. “These things just kind of happen to him.”

“I’m cursed,” Bossuet says cheerfully, leaning in to kiss Joly on the cheek. “Used up all my luck landing this one.”  
  
Montparnasse works to keep his expression neutral and glances away.

On the other side of the dance floor Grantaire is brooding, eyes fixed on Enjolras where he stands chatting to Feuilly and Combeferre, once again masterfully lit like one of Jehan’s saints under the club’s spotlighting.

“Excuse me,” Montparnasse says to Bossuet and Joly who are utterly wrapped up in each other and barely spare him a glance as he goes. 

Montparnasse winds his way through the crowd and sneaks up behind Grantaire, sliding into the space behind him. 

It’s too easy to slip his arms around Grantaire’s waist, press his chest against the broad heat of Grantaire’s back and his cheek to the side of his neck, to lean and speak into his ear. “Having fun?” 

He feels the breath rush through Grantaire’s chest as a little of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“Better now,” he mutters.

“Dance with me,” Montparnasse says and sets his teeth gently but firmly in the stubbled skin beneath Grantaire’s jaw, relishing the sharp little shudder it gets him. “Allez, R,” he ducks around Grantaire’s arm until they’re pressed chest to chest, face to face. “Danse avec moi.”

Grantaire swallows the dregs of his drink and takes Montparnasse by the hand, pulling him out onto the dance floor. 

It’s second nature falling into step with Grantaire, the movement of his body and the feel his hands on the small of Montparnasse’s back is so familiar. They’ve done this a hundred times over.

Montparnasse and Grantaire’s fumbling attempt at a non-platonic relationship had been a disaster from the moment they’d met, without even having the courtesy of falling apart beautifully. The whole affair had been positively mundane in its tragedy. Trite, even.

Dear sweet ‘Aire, knee deep in despair, on the verge of dropping out of art school and totally convinced he was unlovable. So eager to please, to connect, to feel something. They’d fucked vigorously and viciously, as often as they could find the time.

The sex had never been the problem, it was all the rest of it. Grantaire was happy to hold him down, to bite and bruise and punish, all the things Montparnasse liked best - or at least told himself he did. But then Grantaire, never one to do the predictable, stuck around.

That was new.

Hanging around Montparnasse’s bedroom distractingly nude, scratching out little sketches on scraps of paper and foraging through the fridge for beer, stealing Montparnasse’s clothes and breaking down a lifetime of boundaries erected between ‘friend’ and ‘lover’.

By the time Montparnasse realised what had happened, what had been _done_ to him as he had thought of it then, it was too late. And Grantaire, smart, beautiful Grantaire, two steps ahead of him as always, had broken things off.

Montparnasse hadn’t loved him, but it had been close enough.

They’re pressed together close enough now, close enough to share breath. Montparnasse winds his fingers through the sweat damp curls at the nape of Grantaire’s neck and they share a wicked smile. He can read Grantaire thoughts when they’re like this, knows they’re on the verge of a very bad decision and just how good it would feel to make it. How _easy_.

“Can I talk to you?” Enjolras’ voice is more effective than a bucket of ice water. Grantaire jolts in his arms, going stiff where he’d been loose limbed and soft where he’d been stiff.

“Oh of course, feel free to cut in,” Montparnasse rolls his eyes and slides out of Grantaire’s suddenly uncomfortable embrace.

He heads away from the dance floor, not sure if he’s pissed off or grateful for the timely interruption. It’s for the best, he knows, looking back over his shoulder at Grantaire’s enraptured face. There’s only so many times you should make the same mistake.

Montparnasse leans against the wall and watches people dancing for a while. His phone is quiet, no messages. He thinks about texting Claquesous but decides against it, doesn’t want to disturb them.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are dancing, Combeferre smiling fondly as Courfeyrac throws his head back and laughs at something he said. They look good together. Montparnasse wonders if they’re dating or just fucking or pining miserably like everyone else seems to be. 

Not Bahorel and Feuilly, he supposes, looking around for them. He can’t see Bahorel, but Feuilly and Jehan are stood shoulder to shoulder on the other side of the room, leaning on the rail of the bar.

Montparnasse crosses the floor, sidestepping dancers, and slides up to Jehan. “Any idea what that’s all about?” he nods in the direction of Enjolras and Grantaire, stood in their own still little bubble amongst the chaos.

Jehan takes a sip of their drink, wrapping dark lipsticked lips around the straw in a way that makes Montparnasse’s heart trip.

“Sorry,” they say, wide whiskey eyes gazing up at him, “are you talking to me?”

Montparnasse opens his mouth to answer but they’re gone before he can get the words out, skirt swirling as they stalk off.

Montparnasse looks over at Feuilly who just shakes his head.

“Idiot,” he says again.

Montparnasse knows he should let Jehan go. He’d made a deliberate and conscientious decision _not_ to ask Grantaire if they were coming tonight and that was before they’d made it pretty clear that they regret what happened between them at the party.

The smart thing to do would be to order another drink, find Grantaire and say goodnight then head over to Gueulemer’s to watch possessed priests performing arcane rights with buckets of fake blood.

Jehan walks away.

Montparnasse follows them.

The club is busy now, the dance floor packed with bodies, but Jehan’s hair is a beacon in the dark, shining.

“Jehan,” Montparnasse catches up to them and reaches out instinctively to hold on to them, to stop them from leaving. Jehan turns and he drops his hand before he makes contact, keeping a safe distance between his body and theirs.

Jehan gives him an inscrutable look. “What do you want, Montparnasse des Fleurs?”

“You’re upset with me.” That’s not what he wanted to say, but the words spill out before Montparnasse can hold them back.

“No,” Jehan smiles and something in Montparnasse recoils at how obviously fake it is. “Only with myself.”

“Why?”

Jehan drains their glass and sets it down on a table. “Don’t worry about it.”

They’re quiet for a minute, Montparnasse casting around for the right words to make them stay now he’s caught them.

“Courfeyrac seemed to have a lot to say to you earlier,” he settles on in the end, not the best conversation starter judging by the way it makes Jehan frown at him.

“Courf’s one of my closest friends.”

Montparnasse is well aware of that. “I don’t think he likes me very much,” he says, aiming for dismissive and wincing internally when it sounds more like self-deprecation.  
  
“Have you given him any reason to?” Jehan asks and Montparnasse laughs, a short, bitten off sound.

“No.”

Someone pushes past Jehan and knocks them towards Montparnasse. They catch hold of his arm to steady themself, suddenly close. Montparnasse can feel the warmth of them even in the too hot room. He wishes uselessly that he’d taken his jacket off when they arrived, that their fingers were touching bare skin instead of leather.

“Come with me,” Jehan says after a charged pause where they both just look at each other. They lead the way back out of the club, past the bouncer onto the street where people are smoking.

Jehan takes a deep breath of cold night air and lets it out slowly. “I can’t breathe in there.”

They’re still holding his arm. Montparnasse pulls away gently and takes out a cigarette.

“Should you be out here with me?” he asks, moving away to lounge against the wall of the club, the vibrations of the music inside buzzing against his shoulder blades. “Your bodyguard won’t be happy.”

“Courfeyrac’s my friend, not my keeper.”  
  
“He’s worried about you.”  
  
Jehan turns and comes to lean against the wall beside Montparnasse. “Should he be?”

“Probably. I’m not the kind of person you want around your friends.”

The words taste sour and honest on Montparnasse’s tongue. He thinks briefly of Feuilly’s assurances but brushes them off. There’s no point in lying to himself.

Jehan’s studying him, head tilted to the side, hair drifting over their shoulders. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Montparnasse lights his cigarette. “Oh?” he asks, breathing out smoke. “Why not?”

“Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not as scary as you think you are.” Jehan smiles that fake smile again and Montparnasse wants to break something.

“You don’t know me,” he snaps.

“No,” Jehan says, dark gaze pinning him in place. “I don’t know anything about you, except what you’ve told me. I only have your word that any of that is true, and if a person is only as good as their word and you’re a bad person, where does that leave me?”

“Is that a riddle?” Montparnasse asks.

“Are you?”  
  
“A riddle?”

Jehan steps closer, leaning in towards him. “A bad person.”

Jehan’s eyes search his face. Montparnasse wants to kiss them. “Yes,” he says, so he won’t.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, Montparnasse?” Jehan asks quietly.  
  
“Something much worse than burning down a school.”

Jehan’s lips twitch like they’re fighting a smile. “It seemed like a reasonable course of action at the time.”

“Oh, naturally,” Montparnasse grins, “when in doubt: arson. I should really introduce you to a friend of mine. You’d get along like a house on fire.”   
  
Jehan laughs and looks away, hides behind their hair. “I don’t think I really considered the consequences. I thought it would be like something in a film, you know? A dramatic and meaningful gesture. Symbolic. I used to find it difficult, keeping track of what was real and what was just… the version of reality I’d made up in my head,” they smile and it’s less false, but still not very happy. “I still have trouble with that sometimes.”

Montparnasse toys with the filter of his cigarette as he thinks about that.

“What were you going to say to me, earlier?”

Jehan’s face goes closed off again and they look away. “Nothing important.”  
  
“I don’t believe that.”

“Forget about it. It never happened, right?”

Montparnasse has the feeling that he’s seriously fucked up somewhere. It’s unpleasant, like missing a step on a flight of stairs.

“You kissed me,” he waves a vague hand, cigarette trailing smoke. “That’s what you said. You were drunk and you kissed me.”

Jehan looks away again, frowning across the street at a group of noisy girls huddled around their phones. 

“You wanted to apologise.”

“You know what, you’re right,” Jehan says, pressing the back of one hand to their flushed cheeks. “You’re not a nice person.” Their nail polish tonight matches their lipstick. 

Montparnasse smirks and absolutely does not flinch at their words. “I did warn you.”

“You’re sending some very mixed signals here,” Jehan wraps their arms around their waist, huddling into their thin shawl. 

“I’m sending mixed signals?”

“Yes. I don’t know what you want from me.”   
  
_Nothing you don’t want to give._ “Why did you want to apologise?”

“I got drunk and kissed you and had to be dragged away by my friend, it’s embarrassing.”

“I promise you, I really didn’t mind.”  
  
Jehan sighs. “I meant what I said. Sometimes I get so caught up in my own world that I lose track of what’s real. I get carried away. Assign things more meaning than they deserve.”

This kind of raw honesty usually makes Montparnasse want to flee but right now he wants to fold himself around Jehan like armour, tuck them into his chest and keep them safe. It’s a strange, possessive sort of feeling. He’s not sure if he likes it.

“It’s incredibly presumptuous of me, I know, to think that it meant anything more than what it was. And that’s fine, really. Like you said, I don’t know you. You could be-” they wrinkle their nose. “You could be straight, or in a relationship or- anything. I don’t know.”

Montparnasse has to laugh at that. “Well, I’m definitely not straight. Feuilly didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me much at all. And that’s just wonderful, by the way, that you know I asked him about you. Thanks. How exactly _do_ you know that?”

 _Shit_. “It might have come up in conversation,” Montparnasse says, flicking his cigarette end into the gutter. “When I was asking him about you.”

“You talked to Feuilly about me?” Jehan looks genuinely taken aback. “When was that?”  
  
Montparnasse shrugs. “What kind of things do you assign too much meaning to?”

“Oh, you know,” Jehan shoots him a sideways glance, toying with the beading on their top. “When someone spends all night talking about literature and religion and morality with me, and kisses me like they want to fucking eat me alive. Little things like that. Not that it matters, nam simul id factum est, multis diluta labella.”

“What?”  
  
“You blew me off,” Jehan clarifies.

“I assumed you’d spent all evening listening to your friend list my many flaws,” Montparnasse says. “Forgive me for not being terribly interested in having you repeat them back to me as a reason not to have anything more to do with me.”

“I don’t listen to my friends as much as I probably should,” Jehan confesses. “I didn’t know if you’d kissed me back just because I was there and-” they frown, “willing.”

“Jehan,” Montparnasse says, since they’re apparently baring their souls right here on the sidewalk, “it’s been two weeks and I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

He regrets it instantly. That’s _too much_ , too real. He hadn’t even admitted that to himself, what the fuck is he doing saying it out loud?

Jehan’s looking at him, eyes wide, and Montparnasse panics.

“We should go back in,” he says, pushing away to head for the entrance. “They’ve got to be wondering where you are.”  
  
“Wait,” Jehan catches his arm again, “wait.” They step in closer, trapping Montparnasse back against the wall. In their heeled ankle boots Jehan’s nearly the same height as him, they would barely need to lift their chin to kiss him.

Montparnasse’s hands fall to their waist on instinct, the feel of bare skin beneath his palms sends a shiver through him and he tightens his grip, stroking one thumb over Jehan’s hipbone.  
  
“Don’t go,” Jehan’s pupils are huge and black, their lips parted. They slip their hands under Montparnasse’s jacket, sliding up over his chest.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I can’t kiss you,” Jehan says and Montparnasse blinks. 

“Ok?”  
  
“No,” Jehan’s cheeks flush pink and Montparnasse wants to bite them. “I mean, I’m wearing lipstick. It’s not kiss-proof. It’ll go everywhere.”  
  
Montparnasse licks his lips, lifts one hand like he thought of doing earlier and drags his thumb gently over Jehan’s cupids bow. When he pulls away there’s a streak of colour there, shining black like blood under moonlight. He considers it for a moment then slowly wipes his thumb over his own lower lip, smearing darkness across it.  
  
“Fuck,” Jehan breathes, hands tightening in his shirt, and leans in to rest their forehead against Montparnasse's shoulder.  
  
Montparnasse slides his fingers through their hair, cradles the back of their head. Jehan’s breath is hot on his collar bone.

Someone clears their throat pointedly.

“Alright, you two?” Bahorel grins at them, cigarette in hand. “Prouvaire, Courfeyrac was looking for you.”  
  
“Shit,” Jehan murmurs and pulls away from Montparnasse. “Come find me later,” they say, one palm pressed over his racing heart.

Bahorel watches them head back inside before turning to Montparnasse and quirking an eyebrow.

“What’s going on there then?”

Montparnasse leans back against the wall and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I have no fucking idea.”  
  
“You’ve got,” Bahorel points with his cigarette and smirks. “Lipstick.”  
  
Montparnasse sighs and rubs at his mouth. “Fuck.”

~

Back inside Montparnasse is at something of a loss.

Jehan’s vanished again into the depths of the club and he doesn’t want to try and find them while they’re talking to Courfeyrac. He doesn’t want to leave though, not now. Not after whatever the hell just happened outside.

He sticks to the edges of the room, keeping an eye out for Joly and Bossuet or Combeferre or Feuilly, the least objectionable of all Grantaire’s friends. Besides Bahorel, of course, who had remained outside, somehow roped in to taking snapchat selfies with the loud girls.

Instead, he finds Enjolras and Grantaire.

They’re stood close together talking, Grantaire curving towards Enjolras like a vine seeking sunlight, eyes intense on his face as he speaks. Montparnasse sighs and heads towards them. At the very least he can get ten minutes entertainment out of watching them bicker.  
  
As he makes his way over Enjolras says something and Grantaire laughs, gesturing wildly in response and accidentally bumping the arm of the man stood next to him who spills his drink.

“Shit, sorry man,” Grantaire says, hands raised in apology.

Montparnasse doesn’t catch everything the guy says in response but he hears enough.

Apparently so does Enjolras, since he goes rigid with outrage. “What did you just call him?” he asks, staring the guy down.

“Leave it,” Grantaire says, tugging on his sleeve, but Enjolras shakes him off and steps into the guy’s space.

“What did you say to my friend?” he asks again, his voice cold and clear.

“You heard me,” the guy says, squaring his shoulders and sticking his jaw out. “What are you going to do about it?”

Enjolras is practically glowing with righteous fury, fists clenched, getting right up in the guy’s face.

“What’s happening?” Jehan slides through the crowd of people forming around them to stand beside Montparnasse, Courfeyrac nowhere in sight.

“Enjolras is going to get himself punched,” Feuilly says, appearing on his other side.

“Fuck you,” the guy sneers, “and your boyfriend.”

“You’d like that, would you?” Enjolras replies, giving the guy a dismissive once over. “You’re not really our type I’m afraid.” Montparnasse doesn’t want to smile at that but he can’t quite stop himself.

“Ah, merde,” Feuilly winces as the guy swears and shoves Enjolras hard in the shoulder. Grantaire wraps an arm around Enjolras’s waist from behind and tries to pull him away, but Enjolras ducks out of his grip and shoves back, spitting obscenities. 

“I’m going to find Bahorel,” Feuilly says. “Don’t let them kill each other,” he adds, giving Montparnasse a meaningful look.

“We should do something,” Jehan says quietly. They’re frowning, arms crossed tightly across their chest. Montparnasse looks away. 

Enjolras has turned to shout at Grantaire who is still trying to pull him away. As he watches, the guy’s hand slips into his back pocket and Montparnasse feels a little cold shiver of warning trickle down his spine.

“Hold this,” he says, shrugging his jacket off and handing it to Jehan. “Ok,” Montparnasse pushes his way forward through the drunk crowd stood around gawking. “That’s enough.” 

He steps in between the guy and Enjolras who huffs and tries to push him back, but he won’t be moved.

Montparnasse isn't built like a brawler, like Gueulemer or Bahorel. He’s strong though and fast and never afraid to fight dirty. He learned young how to take a hit, to protect his head and the spaces under his ribs, how to twist and kick and bite, to duck reaching hands and shrug out of clothes to escape. Babet taught him how to throw a punch, how to spot weakness and exploit it, how to hold a knife properly.

Montparnasse is good in a fight, and he _likes_ it. He likes the way anticipation thrums in his veins, the way the air sparks with violence, the still breath of calm before the blood starts flowing. Likes when people underestimate him because he’s lithe and pretty, likes the look on their faces when they realise what that mistake will cost them.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Claquesous says, often, and Montparnasse thinks he’s probably right. He’s going to have an ugly death, he knows that. But he’d rather go down swinging, rather breathe his last breath in some dark corner of Paris, smiling through bloody teeth, than live out his days in a grey concrete cell. 

That’s not tonight, though. Not at the hands of this roided up homophobic asshole. Not if he can help it.

“What the fuck do you want?” the asshole asks.

Montparnasse’s smile is razor sharp. “I want you to apologise to my friends.”

“Suce ma bite, salope.”

“I was hoping you’d say something like that,” Montparnasse grins and punches the guy hard in the face. 

The guy reels back, blood spurting in a beautiful fountain from his nose. He staggers, and when his fists come back up there’s a flash of silver in one of them. He lunges for Montparnasse clumsily, like a drunk bull in a china shop. It’s almost pathetically easy to evade his artless swings, to twist out of reach, to dart back in and hit him again and again.

The guy stumbles, spitting a mouthful of blood on the dance floor. Montparnasse grabs hold of his wrist and twists it around behind his back until he doubles over with a scream, dropping the tiny knife. Montparnasse kicks it away across the floor and jabs a knee into the guy’s gut.

“Still don’t want to apologise?” he asks.

“Fuck you,” the asshole groans and Montparnasse laughs. He’s _missed_ this. 

He’s debating letting the guy go, drawing the fight out a little longer just for the fun of it, when someone grabs him from behind and yanks him away.

“It’s me, man, chill,” Bahorel shouts in his ear when Montparnasse jabs an elbow back at whoever’s caught him. “We should get out of here,” he says, shoving through the crowd that’s still milling around staring. He nods towards the other side of bar where the huge bouncer and his uglier friend are making their way over to the scene of the fight.

Enjolras and Grantaire are nowhere to be seen and when Montparnasse looks around for Jehan they’ve vanished too.

“Come on,” Bahorel nudges him and Montparnasse follows him down a corridor and out of an unlocked fire exit. 

“You good?” Bahorel asks once they’re a few streets away.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse flexes his fingers, his knuckles are tender but not bruised or split. There was barely enough time to get any decent hits in. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Bahorel pulls a pack from his coat pocket and Montparnasse realises that Jehan still has his jacket. He takes a cigarette and the lighter Bahorel offers and thinks about Jehan wearing that jacket home,the way it would fit a little too loose on their frame, the sleeves hanging low over their hands. He smiles. Then he checks his back pockets and swears.

“What?”

“My phone and my keys were in my coat,” he sighs.

“You want me to text Éponine?” 

“What time is it?”

Bahorel pulls his phone out and squints at the screen. “Quarter to three.”

“Fuck. No, she’ll be asleep. Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse flicks ash off his cigarette and scrubs one hand through his hair. “I know somewhere I can crash.”

“Alright man,” they come to halt at a corner. “I’ll see you later,” Bahorel claps him on the shoulder and heads off with a wave. 

Montparnasse leans against the wall to finish his cigarette.

He tilts his head back and tries to make out the glint of stars through the pollution and clouds, wonders absently if Jehan likes stargazing. They seem like they would. He thinks about the freckles that span like constellations across their cheeks and shoulders, pictures them spread out on dark sheets, glowing like the moon.

Then he flicks his cigarette away and starts the long walk to Babet’s apartment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I hope you all had a nice winter break ❤️
> 
> Translations:  
> avec tous Les Amis - with all the friends/with all of Les Amis  
> aucun cuillères, couteaux seulement laissé - no spoons, only knives left  
> Joyeux Anniversaire - Happy Birthday  
> Faire taire - hush/be quiet  
> ta gueule! - shut up!  
> Il va pas venir - he isn't going to come  
> Allez, R - come on, R  
> Danse avec moi - dance with me  
> Suce ma bite, salope - suck my dick, bitch (this guy totally deserves to get punched)  
> Joly's badge, "If you Gender me, you ain't a Friend to me" let's just pretend that rhyme works in French, ok?
> 
> When they're outside the club talking Jehan quotes Catullus 99 because... of course they do?


	5. Chapter 5

Babet doesn’t say anything when Montparnasse shows up at odd hours and lets himself into her place, just as she never said anything when he used to show up on her balcony when he was a kid. When she finds him curled up beneath an old blanket on her couch she just arches one dark eyebrow and makes extra coffee. 

Montparnasse doesn’t know what it’s like to have a mother and if he did he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have been anything like Babet, but the casual care she shows him soothes some hollow, brittle place deep in his chest. She’s not maternal, not warm or soft like parents are in films and on television, but she radiates strength and stability in a way that can’t help but feel comforting.  
  
Even when shit’s all gone to hell, when Gueulemer’s been shot or Montparnasse has fucked up an easy job or Claquesous _disappears_ for a fucking _month_ , Babet is a rock. Immovable. Implacable. An unstoppable force in a world that has tried over and over to cut her down.  
  
“Did you have a good night?” she asks when he joins her in the kitchen.  
  
Montparnasse shrugs. “It was fine.”

“Hm,” Babet rakes him over with a look. “Maybe it’s time for a change, no?” she passes him a tartine slathered with apricot jam. “Stop this running around after horrible men and settle down.”

Montparnasse pulls a face. “Please don’t start, you sound like Éponine.”

“Éponine is a very smart young lady.”

“Next you’ll be telling me I deserve to be happy,” Montparnasse mutters, dunking his toast aggressively in his coffee.

“You don’t think you do?” Babet asks, and this is the other motherly thing she does, asking questions he can’t possibly answer.  
  
Montparnasse shrugs and takes a too-large bite of his breakfast. Babet watches him quietly for a minute then reaches out and catches hold on his chin in one hand, puts the other on top of his where it rests on the table.

“You deserve happiness,” she says, looking him straight in the eye. “You deserve good things. And if the world tries to make you think you don’t, you spit in its face and take them anyway.” She pats his cheek and turns back to her coffee.

“Thanks,” Montparnasse stares at his plate.  
  
“I know I’ve not always been there for you-”

“You’ve been there for me more than anyone else ever has,” Montparnasse says fiercely.

He means it. Montparnasse had never had an adult treat him kindly or touch him without violence before Babet.

“I left you alone.”

Montparnasse shrugs, pushing stray crumbs around the table top. “You came back.” 

He would never admit it out loud, but that’s probably the definitive thing that made Montparnasse who he is today.

Babet went away and Montparnasse can’t hold it against her, as much as he’d wished she hadn’t had to leave him behind at the time. Even then at eleven years old he knew she was doing what she had to to survive. 

Montparnasse knows all about survival.

She’d left but she hadn’t stayed gone, and for the first time he learned what it meant to have someone come back for him, to not be abandoned like so much trash the way every other formative figure in his life had left him.  
  
Babet came back into Montparnasse’s life on a hot August evening, two years after she’d vanished.

Summer had settled into the cracks of the city and the yellow air was thick with pollen and car exhaust fumes. Montfermeil was quiet, caught in the brief moment of stillness before night fell.

Montparnasse sat on the crumbling steps outside one of the condemned buildings with Glorieux, passing a cigarette back and forth.

Cosette had yet to make her dramatic return and Éponine was absent, she’d spent less and less time with them since Cosette had left and more time at home writing angry poetry and smoking out of her bedroom window. Azelma had been hanging around earlier in the evening, spraying the sheet metal over the broken windows with sloppy tags, but Montparnasse had sent her home when the sun started threatening to go down.

Montparnasse was irritable, overheated and listless, the back of his neck prickling with sweat even sitting still. Glorieux basked beside him, soaking up the last of the light as the sun sunk behind the shadowy angles of the apartment blocks.

A car idled down the street, crawling along the curb and grinding to a halt a few feet away. Glorieux nudged Montparnasse in the ribs and nodded over to where two men were getting out, both looking around curiously.

“Not a chance,” Montparnasse snorted.  
  
“You underestimate me.” Glorieux stubbed the end of the cigarette out and leaned back on his elbows so his threadbare vest top rode up the concave slope of his stomach.  
  
“The big one wouldn’t touch you to break your nose,” Montparnasse said, eyeing the broad-shouldered lump of a man dismissively. “And the young one-”

“He’s pretty cute, actually,” Glorieux said, tilting his head so his hair fell coquettishly over his eyes. “I’d do him for free.”

“He’s barely as old as you are,” Montparnasse finished. “And probably straight.”

He was quite handsome, tall and dark skinned with sharp cheekbones and an endearing pout. He glanced around nervously as he followed the big, bearded white guy towards them, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Bonsoir messieurs,” Glorieux purred when they walked up. “How may we service you?”

The big one curled his lip in poorly concealed disgust and Montparnasse resisted the urge to gloat.

“This is Montfermeil?” he asked shortly.

Glorieux batted his eyelashes and arched his back. “Are you lost?”

The man grunted. “Looking for les Bosquets.”

Montparnasse and Glorieux exchanged an amused look.

“Congratulations,” Montparnasse waved a lazy hand at their surroundings. “You found it.”  
  
“This can’t be right,” the man said, dismissing Montparnasse and Glorieux without so much as a thank you and turning to speak to his companion.

“This is the address she gave us, Finistere,” the young guy accidentally made eye contact with Glorieux who winked saucily at him. 

Finistere stalked away, stumpy fingers jabbing at the buttons of a dated cell phone.

Glorieux sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, propped his chin in his hands. “What brings you to our lovely neighbourhood?”

“We’re looking for someone.”

“Well, isn’t it just your lucky day,” Glorieux smiled and the guy swallowed nervously. “You found us.”

Finistere was snarling down the phone. “Rien que des putes et racailles,” he spat.

“Your friend is rude,” Montparnasse said, eyes narrowed.  
  
“He’s not my friend.”  
  
Finistere was still swearing at whoever he was speaking to.

“Easy Parnasse,” Glorieux slipped deceptively strong fingers around his wrist and squeezed.

“What’s your name?” the young guy asked suddenly, eyes focussed sharply on Montparnasse’s face.  
  
Montparnasse frowned. “What’s yours?”  
  
“Gueulemer. Are you Montparnasse?”

Glorieux loosened his grip on Montparnasse’s wrist so he could slowly reach towards the knife tucked in the back of his jeans. “Who wants to know?” he asked before Montparnasse could answer.

Gueulemer glanced over his shoulder at Finistere then stepped closer. “If I told you that Babet had sent us,” he said quietly, fixing Montparnasse with a serious look, “would that mean anything to you?”

Montparnasse was pretty sure he stopped breathing for a second. “She’s alive?”

“Yeah,” Gueulemer said, “she’s alive.”

Montparnasse hadn’t seen Babet since that day two winters ago.

He’d convinced himself eventually that she had to be dead. She was the smartest person he’d ever met, but after everything that had happened there was just no chance she was still out there. She was outnumbered, outgunned, the odds stacked against her.

It was the first and last time Montparnasse would underestimate Babet.

“If you come with us,” Gueulemer was saying, “we can take you to her.”  
  
Glorieux snorted. “Yeah, that line’s not going to work on us. You’re not taking him anywhere.”  
  
“It’s not a line,” Gueulemer frowned. “She sent us to look for you.”

Montparnasse hesitated, self-preservation instincts warring with hope.

“Ok,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Montparnasse wasn’t totally convinced that these men hadn’t been sent to kill him but he’d take the risk.

“Are you insane?” Glorieux caught hold of his upper arm and dragged him to his feet. “You’re not going with them.”  
  
“Glorieux-”

“No,” he pulled Montparnasse up the steps away from Gueulemer and Finistere, turning his back on them and lowering his voice. “You know what they could do to you? You remember what happened to Mathis?”

Montparnasse looked away. Behind Glorieux’s back Gueulemer was talking to Finistere who stared over at Montparnasse with a sneer.  
  
“That’s him?” he asked. “The brat?”  
  
“They know my name,” Montparnasse said, “they know Babet’s name.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean shit!”  
  
“Why would they want to hurt me?” Montparnasse asked, knowing the answer but also knowing that Glorieux didn’t.  
  
“The world is full of fucked up people, kid. You and I both know that.”  
  
“I’m going,” Montparnasse set his jaw. “If she's alive I have to see her.”  
  
Glorieux let go of Montparnasse to throw his hands in the air in frustration. “You are going to get yourself straight up serial killed.”  
  
“So?” Gueulemer asked, raising his voice to carry over to them. “Are you coming?”  
  
“I’m going with him,” Glorieux said before Montparnasse could answer. “And we’re telling people that we’re leaving with you. And I want your license plate number,” he said to Finistere who shrugged.  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
“Text Éponine,” Glorieux passed his phone to Montparnasse. “Tell her we’re going on a fucking suicide mission with a pretty boy and discount Père Noël.  
  
“Watch your mouth, slut.”  
  
“Watch it for me, daddy,” Glorieux winked and Finistere recoiled.

“Oh good,” Gueulemer muttered under his breath, “this will definitely go well.”

They piled into the car, Montparnasse behind Gueulemer on the passenger’s side. He pulled his legs up onto the seat and Finistere glared at him in the rearview mirror until Glorieux lit up a cigarette and drew his attention away.  
  
“No smoking in the car,” he snapped.  
  
Glorieux blew a perfect smoke ring and smiled. “I’ll roll the window down.”  
  
Montparnasse stared out of his own window as the familiar landmarks of La Raincy passed. They were headed East, away from the city, and he let the blur of scenery lull him into a state of quiet numbness.

Glorieux, heart clearly set on irritating Finistere as much as physically possible, smoked cigarette after cigarette, lighting the new ones off the ends of the old and flicking the butts out the window where the wind stream caught them and whisked them away.

The car smelled like the pollution blowing in from outside, hot metal and cigarette smoke. Montparnasse’s head swam. Was this a trap? Could Babet really be alive, or had he sentenced himself and Glorieux to die by going with these men?  
  
After around forty minutes of driving in awkward silence Gueulemer, who had spent most of the ride texting someone, turned around in his seat to speak to Montparnasse.  
  
“So, you used to know Babet?” he asked and Montparnasse nodded, stiff with suspicion.  
  
“She talks about you sometimes.”  
  
“What does she say?”  
  
“She said you’re pretty good at parkour.”  
  
Montparnasse surprised himself by laughing. That definitely sounded like the kind of dry joke Babet would make. He relaxed slightly, despite himself. Maybe this hadn’t been a mistake.  
  
“She didn’t mention you were a rent boy,” Finistere cut in and Gueulemer sighed, giving Montparnasse a half apologetic, half commiserating look.  
  
Out of Finistere’s line of sight Glorieux deliberately stubbed his last cigarette out on the car upholstery, leaving a big melted burn mark.  
  
“We’re here,” Gueulemer said as they pulled up to an unremarkable house in a line of unremarkable houses on asuburban street. “Thank god,” he added under his breath.

Montparnasse felt removed from himself as he got out and slammed the car door. The house looked so normal. He didn’t know what he’d expected; an empty lot maybe, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head. Surely no one would bring people somewhere like this to kill them.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked up the path, Glorieux a comforting presence at his back, one hand tight on his shoulder.

Gueulemer rang the bell and they waited.

The door opened and then, she was there.

She was thinner, her face harder, but it softened when she saw Montparnasse.

“Look at you,” she said, catching his cheeks in her hands. “When did you get so tall?”

“Babet,” Montparnasse forced her name out through numb lips.  
  
“Come in, habibi. Your friend as well.” She waved them into the house and turned to Finistere and Gueulemer. “And you two, don’t just lurk on my doorstep like a couple of spare parts.”

The house was nice inside if a little impersonal. It felt temporary, none of the comfortable touches and splashes of colour Montparnasse associated with Babet’s old apartment. 

“Come and sit down, I made tea.”  
  
Montparnasse followed Babet through to the kitchen, Glorieux at his side.  
  
“What the fuck is going on,” Glorieux whispered to him and Montparnasse shrugged. He honestly had no idea.

They sat down obediently at the kitchen table when Babet waved them towards it and Gueulemer handed out cups of tea to everyone but Finistere, who turned his nose up and waved it away.

Babet settled in the chair opposite the two of them, Gueulemer to her left, and took a careful breath.

“What I have to tell you does not leave this house, do you understand?”  
  
“I don’t think you should be telling them anything,” Finistere muttered.  
  
Babet looked over at him where he was leaned against the kitchen sideboard. Montparnasse caught Gueulemer’s eye and they shared a knowing glance.  
  
“Please don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking, Finistere.”

“Look, all I’m saying is-”

Babet stood up. “May I have a word with you in the other room?”

Finistere faltered and looked around the kitchen. Gueulemer, Glorieux and Montparnasse stared back at him, their faces carefully blank.  
  
“Alright,” he said grudgingly and Babet gestured for him to go ahead of her.  
  
“I’ll be back in just a minute,” she said, resting a reassuring hand briefly on the back of Montparnasse’s neck as she walked past him.

When she left, she shut the door behind them.  
  
“So,” Glorieux said cutting through the awkward silence. “I have no idea what’s happening, but I’m guessing that’s probably not a fun conversation going on in there.”  
  
Gueulemer took a sip of his tea and shrugged. “Finistere’s readjusting to a change in management.”  
  
“What the fuck does that mean?” Glorieux asked.  
  
Montparnasse picked up his tea cup and wrapped both hands around it. His fingers were cold despite the warm evening outside and he felt shaky, like he was going into shock.  
  
Glorieux poked him in the shoulder. “Don’t drink that, idiot.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Montparnasse said, breathing in the steam. “Everything’s fine.”  
  
“I’m drinking it,” Gueulemer pointed out. “Would I drink something if it was dangerous?”  
  
“I don't know, maybe you’re immune. That’s a thing right?”  
  
“In movies,” Gueulemer smiled and it lit up his face, showing how young he really was. “And comic books. Not in real life, I don’t think.”  
  
The tea was perfectly brewed and sweetened with honey. If Montparnasse shut his eyes it was like the last two years had never happened.

The front door slammed and Montparnasse jumped, spilling hot liquid over his fingers.

“I’m sorry about that,” Babet said, coming back into the room. “I don’t-” she paused. “Montparnasse? Are you alright?”  
  
Montparnasse nodded but couldn’t quite make himself look at her.  
  
“Come here,” Babet said. He put the tea down and stumbled to his feet. Hands caught his shoulders in a firm but gentle grip and pulled him into a hug. “It’s ok.”  
  
Montparnasse wrapped his arms tightly around Babet’s waist.

“You’re not dead,” he said, stupidly. “You’re here.”  
  
“I’m fine. And so are you.”  


A weight was falling from Montparnasse’s shoulders, one he hadn’t even known he was carrying. 

He held on to Babet and let himself shake apart.

Babet’s husband had been a small-time gangster, she told them later. When he mysteriously disappeared, something that was quickly attributed to rival factions, she’d stepped in to take his place.

Babet had a natural talent for organised crime and, before anyone had even really noticed, she’d made a name for herself and her rapidly growing gang of foundlings and criminals.

That was the birth of Patron-Minette.

The years Babet had been gone were hard, Montparnasse can’t pretend they weren’t. But he never resented her for going, never held it against her when she returned.

It had taken a little while for him to readjust, to learn to trust her again. He'd gotten too used to being on his own. But they’d worked for it the way they had before, learned to pull back their sharp edges and make space for each other in their lives.

Montparnasse doesn’t know what it’s like to have a mother, but he can’t say he particularly cares.

He doesn’t need one.

Montparnasse showers the smoke and liquor of the previous night away and sifts through the box of old things Babet keeps in her office to find some clean clothes. It’s all stuff he and the others have abandoned over the years, mostly shirts that are too tight in the shoulders and sweaters with worrying looking holes. 

Babet sits at her desk and pretends to ignore his lamentations over the lack of anything decent to wear.

“Why do you even have this?” he asks, cringing as he digs out a photo of himself looking impossibly young, holding a chubby toddler aged Gavroche on his lap and scowling at the camera.

“For blackmail purposes,” Babet says without looking up from her phone, “naturally.”

Montparnasse flings it back in the box and digs out a threadbare black t-shirt that probably once belonged to Claquesous judging by the bleach stains along the hem. He makes a face.

“Stop fussing you ridiculous child,” Babet tuts. Montparnasse rolls his eyes and pulls the shirt on.

“Here,” Babet throws the phone she’s holding to him and he catches it one-handed. “Get rid of your old one, if you even get it back.”

“No one is breaking into my phone, it’s encrypted all to shit,” Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “I know because you encrypted it. And set my password. Which is twelve digits long.”

“This one is sixteen,” Babet says with a diabolical smile and Montparnasse throws his head back and groans long and loud.

~  


Since he doesn’t have Grantaire’s number on the new phone, Montparnasse decides his best bet is to simply show up at his apartment unannounced. 

Bossuet lets him in when he arrives and doesn’t seem that surprised to see him.

“Hey,” he smiles, “R’s still asleep, I think. Or he’s sulking. One or the other.”

“Could be both,” Joly says from the nest of blankets and pillows they’re tucked up in on the couch.

“Probably both,” Bossuet agrees.

Montparnasse nods and heads straight into Grantaire’s room without knocking. 

There’s a very dejected looking lump curled in the middle of the bed and Montparnasse nearly trips over a half-empty bottle of extremely cheap vodka laying on the floor as he heads for the window.

He throws the shutters open and the lump lets out a piteous whimper.

“F’ck’ff,” Grantaire sounds like he’s been gargling glass.

“Good morning,” Montparnasse says cheerfully, dragging the covers away from Grantaire who whimpers louder and buries his face in his arms. “Hungover, are we?”

“Aargggh,” Grantaire moans.

“Yeah, so was I a week ago when you called me at fuck o’clock in the morning and demanded my presence at your birthday party.”

Grantaire curls into a ball at the word ‘birthday’.

“Laissez moi mourir,” he croaks.

“No,” Montparnasse flings himself onto the bed beside Grantaire and smirks when the lurch of the mattress draws another unhappy gurgle from him. 

“I hate you.”

“I brought pineapple juice.”

Grantaire rolls onto his back and makes a grabby hand. “Give.”

Montparnasse passes him the carton of juice and watches in horrified fascination as Grantaire drains half of it in one go. 

“I hate you less,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I don’t know how you can drink that when you’re feeling sick,” Montparnasse says, disgusted.

“I don’t know how you can live on sugar, coffee and cigarettes and not die of scurvy,” Grantaire retorts.  
  
“Superior metabolism,” Montparnasse says airily.

“Genetic lottery winner,” Grantaire snipes.

“Well I wouldn’t know about that, would I,” Montparnasse says, a little spitefully, and Grantaire winces.

“Sorry,” he mutters and drinks the rest of his juice. 

“You can pay for breakfast,” Montparnasse offers benevolently. Grantaire huffs but doesn’t argue.  
  
Once Montparnasse has literally dragged Grantaire out of bed, forced him into the shower and fresh clothes and had Joly pour two cups of coffee down his throat, he seems a little better. He dozes on the metro, drooling on Montparnasse’s shoulder.

They venture out into the early afternoon sunshine and Montparnasse decides he wants crêpes.

“Honestly,” Grantaire says, looking green around the edges as the vendor piles whipped cream and fruit and extra powdered sugar onto the pancake, “there’s something wrong with you.”  


He orders a boring nutella crêpe and picks at the edges of it with little interest.  
  
“So,” Montparnasse says once they’re settled on a bench in a patch of sun, “last night was interesting.”

“It was a total fucking disaster,” Grantaire says.

“I don’t know,” Montparnasse licks whipped cream off his thumb. “I had a pretty good time.”

“You always have a good time when you get to hit someone in the face.”

“True,” Montparnasse nods, “although Enjolras nearly beat me to the punch, as it were.”

Grantaire groans. “Do not. I get enough of that from Bossuet.”

“Where did you two run off to, anyway?”

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire turns to stare at him, “I had to physically drag his ass out of there before he threw himself into an actual knife fight with you and that shithead.”

“I don’t think you can call it a knife fight when only one person has a knife,” Montparnasse points out. “Or when the knife is that fucking small.”

“Whatever,” Grantaire shakes his head. “He was drunk and he was going to get himself hurt.”

“And he appreciated that, did he?” Montparnasse asks innocently.

Grantaire scowls at his crêpe. “We may have had a small disagreement about it.”  
  
“So you went home and drank yourself unconscious?”  
  
“It’s my birthday, I can cry and drown myself in vodka if I want to.”  
  
“It seemed like things were going well before that, at least? You were almost having a civil conversation before that asshole got involved.”  
  
Grantaire sighs. “We were talking about employee rights, I guess for Enjolras that counts. Who fucking knows with him.”

“He looked pretty eager to defend your honour with his fists, so there’s that,” Montparnasse points out.

“Yeah, but Enjolras would fight a fucking brick wall if he thought it insulted one of his friends. You have that in common.”  
  
Montparnasse stares at him, horrified. “You take that back immediately. We are _nothing_ alike.”  
  
Grantaire laughs.  
  
“You know,” Montparnasse says, since they’re apparently playing dirty, “if you just _told_ him-”

“Don’t.”

“Honestly, R. You know how I feel about the guy, but-” 

“Shut up, we’re not having this conversation again. Let’s talk about something else. Do you know if the Corinthe is hiring?”

“What happened to your gallery assistant job?”  
  
“Ah. Well, they wanted me to encourage more customers, so I had Combeferre come see me and pretend to be interested in buying a bunch of their shittier works. Only he brought Feuilly and Enjolras along and we all got in a big debate about the intrinsic value of art in a capitalist society. And then I got sacked.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“It was my own fault, I should’ve known better. And I kind of hated that job anyway. I had to wear a suit every day, I mean, what the fuck.”

“And that has nothing at all to do with why Enjolras was talking to you about employee rights last night, that’s a total coincidence?”

Grantaire drops his head forward and groans. “Please stop.” 

“I’m just hurt you let them come and see you at work but not me.”  
  
“Yeah, well, they’re not going to come back later and rob the place, are they?”  
  
“You don’t know that. Enjolras might have a secret life as a cat burglar.”  
  
Grantaire visibly drifts off into a fantasy, Montparnasse kicks his ankle to snap him back to reality.  
  
“I don’t think the Corinthe is looking. Biz quit her other job so she’s picking up more shifts, I can get her to ask Chetta though.”  
  
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll try the Musain.”  
  
“Is that wise?”  
  
“What, Floréal doesn’t work there anymore.”  
  
“Hm.”

“Besides,” Grantaire says in his best shit stirring voice, “I heard she’s seeing Bizarro now.”

Montparnasse blinks. Surely he misheard that. “What?”  
  
“That’s what Matti says, anyway.”  
  
“Bizarro doesn’t date people.”

Grantaire shrugs. “All I know is they’ve been out three times now, which is twice more than Bizarro usually sees anyone, correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Montparnasse leans back against the bench and tries to quantify this new information. “Huh.”

The sun comes out from behind the light cloud cover and Grantaire pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a pained sound. 

“Fuck me, I hate vodka.”  
  
“Why do you drink it then?”  
  
“It’s cheap,” Grantaire shrugs.  
  
“You can afford decent alcohol, why are you poisoning yourself with that nasty shit? Even Claquesous wouldn’t drink that and he’s got an iron stomach. You’d be better off drinking the stuff you clean your brushes with.”  
  
“Ah, but you forget, I’m back among the ranks of the unemployed. Soon I’ll have to make my own bathtub wine and finally finish that bottle of crème de menthe Joly thinks we all don’t know about that’s stashed under the bathroom sink.”  
  
“Disgusting. Take some commissions, think of the wine.”  
  
Grantaire whines and leans against Montparnasse’s side. “I hate commissions.”  
  
“Stop pretending to be a ridiculous caricature of a starving artist, just do some portraits.”  
  
“I _hate_ portraits.”  
  
“Fine, do some more studies of Enjolras and pretend they’re mythological figures, those always sell. You’ve kind of worn out the Apollo angle but he’d make a pretty decent Achilles.”  
  
“Shut up,” Grantaire blushes. “Don’t call me out like this, damn, it’s my birthday.”  
  
“Your birthday was yesterday. Today you’re just a year older and a year sadder.”

“My birthday is a curse,” Grantaire sighs. “Every year some kind of heinous shit goes down. It’s a sign, I’m not _supposed_ to get any older. Each year I continue to languish on this godforsaken rock drifting through space I spit in the face of god.”

“You met me on your birthday,” Montparnasse steals Grantaire’s abandoned crêpe out of his hand.

“I rest my case.”

“Rude,” Montparnasse says, through a mouthful of nutella.

Montparnasse first met Grantaire when Éponine dragged him to a party a few years ago. He hadn’t wanted to go, but Éponine had promised free food and drinks and hours of entertainment mocking the posh students in attendance.

“They’re hilarious, you have to see it to believe it. You don’t have to stay, just come and get drunk and you can go do whatever you want after. Besides,” she’d added, “I want you to meet Grantaire, I think you’ll like him.”  
  
Éponine had been talking on and off for weeks about her new friend Grantaire who she’d met on a heavy night out drinking with Feuilly. So far Montparnasse had learned that he was a student who was failing all his classes, a cynic, an artist and an absolute lush.

Montparnasse had no idea why Éponine thought he’d be interested in befriending some drunk rich kid but he’d eventually agreed, just to get her to stop asking, mostly.

They’d shown up fashionably late to the party, held in the exact sort of elegantly decaying apartment building middle-class students playing at poverty adored.

Éponine had abandoned him as soon as they were through the door and Montparnasse picked his way through room after room of pretentious hipster types until he found the kitchen and promptly went through the fridge, filling all of his available pockets with beer bottles.

A girl stumbled through the door and blinked hazily at him. “Who’re you?”

“Friend of Grantaire’s,” Montparnasse lied smoothly, flicking the lid off the beer in his hand and taking a sip.  
  
“Oh, he’s through there,” the girl waved back the way she’d come and Montparnasse saluted her with his bottle and slipped away.  
  
Back in the main living room he found himself on the edge of an intense debate about art. He took another swig of cheap lager and looked around for Éponine.  
  
“You! Angry goth kid,” someone said and Montparnasse raised a disdainful eyebrow. “What do you think?”  
  
“I think you better not be talking to me.”  
  
The guy, who definitely had been talking to him, laughed. He was good looking in a sort of scruffy, unhealthy way. He looked tired, drunk, a little bit wild. Montparnasse moved closer, crossed his arms and stood over the group sitting around on the floor. The guy leaned back on his hands and grinned up at him.  
  
“Going to join us? We’d love to hear your thoughts.”

Montparnasse, as a rule, had few thoughts about art. He liked what he liked, going by visceral gut reaction and never bothering to think much further than that first impression. Something that these overgrown children with their half-finished degrees in Fine Art and Art History seemed to find enchanting and exasperating in equal measure.

“But why?” the scruffy guy had asked, wielding a book on the Surrealists stolen from the overflowing bookshelf of whoever’s flat they were in, Montparnasse had never bothered to find out, and nearly smacking a fellow party-goer in the face. “Why Ernst but not Dali? What is it you like? What is it you _don’t_ like?”

Montparnasse just shrugged and the guy made a noise of exhilarated frustration. 

“What’s your name?”

“Montparnasse.”

“Like the cemetery?” scruffy guy asked, giving him an amused look.

“Yes.”  
  
“I’m R. Like the letter,” he smiled.   
  
“Enchanté,” Montparnasse said sarcastically.

“So, you’ve enraptured us all with your opinions about the Surrealists,” R said and Montparnasse glanced around pointedly to where they were sitting alone, everyone else having given up and abandoned the conversation a good twenty minutes previously. “Tell me though, what do you think about Cubism?”

Montparnasse pulled a face. “It’s boring.”

R made a thrilled noise. “Boring!”  
  
“Yeah, it’s slapdash and weird and boring. What’s the point in painting something if you can’t even tell what it is? Fuck that. Fuck Impressionism, too, while you’re at it.”  
  
“Ok, but surely in person you can see why the Impressionist works are so famous?”  
  
“I’ve never seen any in person.”  
  
“What?” R gaped at him unattractively. “You’ve never seen Les raboteurs de parquet? Danseuses bleues? Bal du moulin de la Galette?” Montparnasse shrugged again. “Have you even seen the Mona fucking Lisa?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
R looked stunned. “How do you live in Paris your whole life but never see any of these paintings?”  
  
“Never got around to it, I guess.”  
  
“You never went with school? Your parents never took you?”  
  
“I imagine they were so busy picking out the box they’d leave me on the church steps in that it slipped their mind,” Montparnasse replied, oozing sarcasm.

Which was how he’d found himself leaning on the Pont Royal at seven in the morning, waiting for the Musée d’Orsay to open.

“The Louvre is whatever,” R waved dismissively towards it. “There’s some good stuff, but the Orsay is better. You need to see the Lautrec.”

“Whatever you say,” Montparnasse leaned over the edge of the bridge to stare at the grey water rushing past below, the early morning light turning it silver. He was drunk, fuzzy around the edges, and actually having a nice time. Éponine could never know, she’d be insufferable.

“You’re friends with Éponine, aren’t you?” R asked, like he’d plucked the thought straight out of his head, and Montparnasse blinked at him. 

“How’d you know that?”

R leaned on the wall next to him. “She told me about you.”

“‘ _Aire_ ,” Montparnasse said slowly. “You’re Grantaire.”

“You didn’t get that until just now?” Grantaire sounded delighted.  
  
“Don’t make me push you off this bridge,” Montparnasse warned and Grantaire laughed.  
  
“You ditched your own party to take a stranger to an art gallery?”  
  
“I’m fun like that,” Grantaire’s smile was tight around the edges and Montparnasse thought about what Éponine had told him, that he was probably going to drop out of art school, that Feuilly had gone home with him the night they met just to make sure nothing happened to him.  
  
“Well, I’m having a great time listening to you lecture, if it’s any consolation,” he drawled and Grantaire’s harsh smile shifted into something more genuine.

When it finally opened Grantaire had paid for both of their tickets to the Musée d’Orsay, which was near empty that early in the morning.

They must have been quite a sight, the two of them reeking of booze and smoke, stumbling from room to room with no apparent goal in mind, stopping in front of paintings occasionally so Grantaire could wave his hands around and talk about brush technique and use of light and rule of whatever and Montparnasse could tilt his head considering and nod along, and then either give his seal of approval or shrug, unmoved.

Montparnasse wasn’t interested in the Impressionists. He breezed past Degas and Monet alike, Grantaire trailing along behind him mumbling about the Société Anonyme des Artistes, Peintres, Sculpteurs, Graveurs, etc. 

“-and then Havard was basically like: ‘I don’t know her’, which is still maybe one of the best passive-aggressive critic burns of all time-”

Montparnasse had paused longer in front of Dante and Virgil, until Grantaire noticed and laughed at him.  
  
“Of course,” he’d grinned, “of _course_ you like this one.”

Montparnasse had been struck most, unexpectedly, by Starry Night Over the Rhone. Van Gogh had always left him cold before, but in person the painting seemed to _move_. Light flickered on surging water, the sky yawned wide and dark above and Grantaire paused in his rant and stared at him.

“There it is,” he’d mumbled, tired and red-eyed and rapidly sobering up, and then he’d caught Montparnasse by the front of his coat and reeled him in for a deep, messy kiss. 

They'd bought waffles from a stand in the Tuileries afterwards, sat on a bench and ate them watching a woman walking an entire pack of spoiled dogs.

“Your parents didn’t seriously abandon you on some church steps, did they?” Grantaire asked when they were finally getting ready to part ways.

“No,” Montparnasse snorted. “This isn’t a Disney film.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, looking relieved. “Good.”  


“They left me at a hospital, like everyone else who abandons babies.”  


Grantaire squinted at him. “I honestly can’t tell if that’s a joke or not.”  


Montparnasse just smiled and walked away.  
  
And thus a tradition had been born.  


“Last night was still not as bad as last year, at least,” Montparnasse says now.  
  
“For the hundredth time,” Grantaire hisses, “ _we do not speak of last year._ ” He rubs one shaky hand over his eyes. 

While he’s distracted Montparnasse picks his pocket and swipes his phone.

“It freaks me out when you do that,” Grantaire frowns when he notices Montparnasse casually typing in his pin code.

Montparnasse smirks at him, “I know.”

“Have you lost another phone? What the fuck do you do with them?”

Montparnasse ignores him. “Why is my name not under M?”

“It’s under L, for Lucien. Et Littéralement Satan.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up R’phael.”

“Fuck off.”

Montparnasse scrolls through until he finds his name and enters the new number. Then he flips through the contacts until he finds Jehan and puts their number in his phone. He’s about to personalise the ringtone for the number listed under “Apollo” to something clever when Grantaire snatches the phone back.  
  
“Does Glorious Apollo know your first name, ‘ _Aire_?”  
  
Grantaire glares and his neck goes blotchy pink. “No, he does not. And he will not.”  
  
Montparnasse grins and takes another bite of Grantaire’s crêpe. “What’s his, anyway? Do you know?”  
  
Grantaire looks away across the street and mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“It’s _Gabriel_ ,” Grantaire mutters.

Montparnasse stares for a full three seconds before he bursts out laughing. Ugly, bent over, spraying bits of crêpe everywhere hysteria.

“It is not that funny.”

“Oh my god, it _absolutely_ is,” Montparnasse wipes his watery eyes. “Shit. Fuck me. _Gabriel_.”

“Shut up.”

“Of all the names he could have picked, why that one?”  
  
“I think Joly said his mothers helped him choose it or something when he came out.”  
  
“Fuck,” Montparnasse says.  
  
“What?”

“You have to tell him. The irony _alone_ -”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, it’d be so worth it. Think of the look on his face.”  
  
“It gets worse, remind me to tell you Combeferre’s prénom some time.”  
  
Montparnasse raises an eyebrow but Grantaire just shakes his head.

“He’s so…” Grantaire trails off, lost in thought.

Montparnasse bunches up the paper and napkins from their lunch and throws them in the bin next to their bench. 

He’s uncomfortably reminded of something Grantaire said the first time they’d slept together. Montparnasse had been lying sprawled out across his mattress, smoking lazily while sweat dried on his skin and Grantaire watched him with a peculiar look on his face.  
  
“What?” he’d asked and Grantaire smiled.

“You’re so…”

“Handsome?” Montparnasse suggested with a grin, “Gifted? Sartorially blessed?”

“ _Different_ ,” Grantaire breathed eventually. 

Montparnasse felt his smile turn brittle. _Different from who?_ he wanted to ask, but didn’t. 

_Don’t ask stupid questions._

“Come on,” he nudges Grantaire, drawing him out of his daydream. “Let’s go.”

Grantaire stumbles to his feet. “Where are we going?” 

“ _You_ are going home to bed, you disgraceful wretch, to sleep off your shame.”

“Oh thank god. I think I may actually die if I have to go climb up and down the Louvre staircases with ten thousand tourists today.”  
  
Montparnasse walks him back to the metro stop.

“I’ll ask Biz about the bar work,” he says while they wait for Grantaire’s train.

“Thanks,” Grantaire wraps his arms around Montparnasse’s shoulders and leans all his weight on him.

“Get off, you’re heavy as hell,” Montparnasse huffs. “Are you still drunk?”

“T'es un bon ami, Parnasse.”  
  
He hugs Grantaire back. “Yeah, I’m amazing, I know.”  
  
Grantaire snorts and shoves him away. “Couillon.”  
  
“Listen, I know what you’re going to say, but just- think about talking to Enjolras, alright?”  
  
“That’s pretty much the only thing I think about.”  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
Grantaire looks away as the train pulls in to the platform with a screech of brakes.  
  
“I’ll think about it,” he promises, getting onto the closest carriage.  
  
“Good. Oh, and if you see Prouvaire, tell them I want my jacket back. Italian leather isn’t cheap.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts to say something but the doors close and Montparnasse just waves at him as the train pulls away.

~

Montparnasse had privately been hoping for a more exciting week than the previous one. Unfortunately, by Tuesday evening, he’s more than ready to take that wish back.

He’s lounging around at home, waiting for Gueulemer to text him, when Éponine walks through the front door in a daze.

She takes her coat off and drops it over the arm of the couch, not seeming to notice when it slides off onto the floor. Her keys follow, chucked carelessly onto the coffee table with a clatter. Then she just stands there. Staring into space.

“What the hell happened to you?” Montparnasse asks and Éponine blinks at him, like she hadn’t noticed he was there even though he’s sitting practically right in front of her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Éponine says, and that’s when Montparnasse notices how red her eyes are, how choked up her voice sounds.

“Éponine?” he unfolds himself from his chair takes a step towards her but she shakes her head.

“Don’t,” she says, tearing up. “I can’t handle this right now.” She takes off for her room, Montparnasse hot on her heels.

“Tell me,” he demands, “what did they do?” Because she was on a date, or she was supposed to be. With Cosette and that boy. Montparnasse clenches his fists.  
  
“Leave me alone,” Éponine snaps and slams her bedroom door, shutting him out.

“Éponine?” he knocks and something heavy crashes against the wall. “Shit.”  
  
Montparnasse calls Cosette, but her phone rings and rings and eventually goes to voicemail.

He paces the living room, debates calling Fauchelevent, decides he’d rather throw himself into the Seine and paces some more.

When he sneaks silently along the hallway to hover anxiously outside Éponine’s room, he can hear her crying.

The door buzzes.  
  
“Let me in,” Marius fucking Pontmercy says when he opens it, looking sweaty and out of breath and slightly crazed.

“Absolutely not,” Montparnasse replies coldly.

“Montparnasse, open the door!”

“No.” 

Marius lets out an exasperated breath that’s almost a shout and drags his hands through his hair, rumpling it beyond its already ridiculous mess.

“Please,” he says, “it’s very important.”

“Je m’en fous.” 

“Éponine-”

“ _Éponine_ ,” Montparnasse says in a dangerous tone, “was crying when she came home earlier. I haven’t seen her cry since she was seventeen and her piece of shit mother put Azelma in the hospital. So I want you to take a moment to think very carefully about what you’re doing here, and then I suggest you turn around and leave.”

“She was crying?” Marius says, looking unexpectedly devastated.

“Yes.”

“Oh god,” he presses one hand to his mouth. “Montparnasse, please let me in.”

“No.”

“I’m not _fucking_ scared of you!” Marius slams one hand against the door.

Montparnasse just looks at him.

“Ok, so, maybe I am. A bit. But you have to let me in, I need to _fix_ this.”

“…no.” Montparnasse shuts the door.

“I’m not leaving until I speak to her!” Marius shouts after him. 

“Movies have lied to you,” Montparnasse shouts back, “this is not romantic, it is creepy and intrusive.”  
  
He goes to check on Éponine. Her door is firmly closed and very loud music is thumping through the wall.

When Montparnasse checks his phone he has a text from Cosette.

_This is between the two of them_ , it says. _I’m not getting involved. Are they ok?_

_Ponine’s shut herself in her room and your bf is setting up camp outside our front door_ he sends back.

_Why???_

Montparnasse doesn’t reply. 

When he goes out to buy cigarettes nearly half an hour later, Marius is sitting against the wall outside the apartment. He scrambles to his feet when Montparnasse comes out, looking pathetically hopeful.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Montparnasse shuts the door firmly behind himself.

“She’s not answering her phone,” Marius says sadly.

“I don’t think she even has it on her.”

Marius sighs and sits back down.

Montparnasse walks away. 

When he comes back, fifteen minutes later, Marius is still there.

“What did you do?” he can’t help but ask.

Marius looks at him tiredly. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Montparnasse arches an eyebrow.

“You know,” he says casually, “Éponine told me her biggest fear about this thing you’re doing was that she’d end up losing both of you. It’s not even been a month and already you’ve fucked up and now Cosette won’t come over to comfort her because she doesn’t want to pick sides. I’m almost impressed, I thought you’d hold out a little longer.”

Marius’ face crumples. He doesn’t even try to argue when Montparnasse unlocks the door and goes inside without him.  
  
Éponine resurfaces some time after that, wearing her comfiest pyjamas and a scowl.

“Don’t say anything,” she barks at Montparnasse where he’s curled up in his chair with his laptop. The intimidating effect is somewhat ruined by how raw her voice sounds.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Give me one of those,” Éponine says, pointing at the cigarettes sitting on the arm of his chair.

“I thought you quit?”

“Not much point now, is there?” Éponine mutters, but when Montparnasse throws her the pack she just holds onto it instead of taking one out.

“So?” Montparnasse asks eventually.

“So what?”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Éponine sits down heavily on the couch. “He’s going to ask her to marry him.”  
  
“ _What_?” Montparnasse slams his laptop screen shut.  
  
“He asked my advice, wants me to help pick out a ring. And I was sitting there and I just, saw it I suppose. How ridiculous this all is. How pointless. They’re going to get married and build a life together and, what, I’ll tag along on their dates? Be the third wheel on their anniversaries?” she shakes her head. “So stupid.”  
  
“Do you want to marry Pontmercy?”  
  
“ _God_ no, I don’t want to marry anyone. You know that.”  
  
“But you don’t want them to get married, either.”  
  
“That’s- no. That’s not what I meant, of course they should get married. They’re perfect for each other. They’ll be perfect together.”  
  
Montparnasse stays quiet, watching without saying anything as Éponine stands and walks over to pick her coat up from the floor.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she says, pulling her phone out of the pocket. “I kept telling myself we could make it work, no matter how difficult it would be. But he wants to _propose_ , he’s thought it all out. I can’t stand in the way of-” Éponine cuts herself off.

She frowns. Looks up towards the front door. Looks back at her phone.  
  
Montparnasse sinks lower in the chair, pulling his knees up like a shield.

“Parnasse,” Éponine says.

Montparnasse quickly busies himself opening his laptop. “Mm?” 

“Is Marius outside in the hallway?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Montparnasse says lightly, eyes fixed on his keyboard.

“Montparnasse.”

“Éponine.”

She’s got her hands on her hips and she’s frowning at him, which seems a little unfair. 

“What?”

“How long has he been there?”

Montparnasse blinks innocently at her. “What’s the time?”  
  
“Parnasse!”

“Since about ten minutes after you got home.”

“Fuck. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“You were throwing things.”

“Oh god,” Éponine collapses onto the couch and hides her face in her hands.

“I notice you are not getting up to let him in,” Montparnasse points out. 

“Shut up,” she moans.  
  
The door buzzes and they both look over at it. A minute later, someone knocks.

“Hello?” Cosette calls through the door. “Can you let us in please?”

Éponine looks over at Montparnasse, panicked.

“Don’t look at me, they’re your… whatever they are,” he flicks his fingers dismissively.

Cosette knocks again.

“Shit,” Éponine mutters to herself as she stands to let them in. “Shit shit _shit_.”

“They can probably hear you,” Montparnasse points out.

“Stop helping,” she snaps and opens the door.

“Hi,” Cosette says, somehow hustling herself and Marius in to the room with no resistance.

“Éponine,” Marius looks like he wants to prostrate himself before her. “Éponine, I am _so sorry_.”

Éponine has her arms folded, fingers clenched in the fabric of her sweater.

“It’s-” she clears her throat. “It’s fine. Don’t-”

“No,” Cosette cuts in. “We’re not doing that. We are going to sit down and have a grown-up discussion about this and we are going to work through the problem.” Marius and Éponine gaze adoringly at her. “Clearly we have not been communicating well enough and that’s something we need to improve on, but first of all-” she steps forward and pulls Éponine into a hug. 

Éponine makes a soft sound and wraps her arms around Cosette’s waist. When Cosette reaches out and drags Marius into the cuddle pile as well, Montparnasse decides it’s time to leave. 

Back in his bedroom he texts Claquesous.

_please tell me we’re doing something tonight_

_No,_ Claquesous texts back, _but you can come over if you want._

Montparnasse grins.

o _ver to G’s you mean, I assume?_

_Shut up. Bring beer._

_only if I’m not interrupting…_

_Fuck you, you’re uninvited._

_I’m coming anyway, see you soon_

Claquesous texts back a knife emoji and Montparnasse laughs.  
  
~

It’s late.

The lights are low and the television volume is turned almost all the way off because Bizarro had stormed out of her bedroom earlier like Truth from the Well and shouted at them to keep it down, assholes, some of us have work tomorrow.

Gueulemer is asleep, slumped over with his head on Claquesous’ lap. Claquesous is pretending he’s not silently freaking out about it. 

Montparnasse smiles at the two of them and lifts his phone to take a picture. Claquesous glares.

_“Je te tuerai,”_ he mouths exaggeratedly.  
  
Montparnasse takes the photo, the shutter sound effect too loud in the quiet of the room. Gueulemer stirs. Claquesous glares harder.

“Worth it,” Montparnasse whispers, sending the picture to everyone in their group chat.

“Just wait,” Claquesous whispers back, “as soon as I can move again you’re fucking _dead_ , Parnasse.”  
  
“Bring it,” Montparnasse smirks as Gueulemer makes a grumpy sound and buries his face against Claquesous’s thigh.  
  
Claquesous freezes, the very faintest hint of pink creeping across his cheeks.

Montparnasse takes another picture. 

_“Dead,”_ Claquesous hisses.

Montparnasse scrolls through his contacts idly and pauses, thumb hovering over Jehan’s name.

He hasn’t messaged them yet. It’s not nerves, he’s _mostly_ sure they’ll be pleased to hear from him. He just doesn’t know what to say.

He looks over at where Claquesous has finally, tentatively, rested one hand on Gueulemer’s shoulder. He thinks about Grantaire watching a train approach, weighed down with resignation. Thinks about Marius Pontmercy banging on his front door, shouting at him, standing up to him. Cosette quietly pulling the people she adores close to her, wrapping them up in love.

_You deserve happiness._

Montparnasse opens a new text window. Types a hello. Deletes it. Types it again. Huffs out an annoyed breath and turns the screen off. 

He lasts roughly a minute before he opens it again. 

_I looked for you the other night but you were gone, did you get home ok? - M_  

Montparnasse sends the text before he can overthink it and turns his screen off, shoving his phone in his pocket.

It’s a few minutes before the message alert tone buzzes and Montparnasse can’t pretend he took in anything that happened on the tv in all that time. He fumbles with his phone when he opens it, hoping it’s not just another text from Éponine apologising for driving him out of the apartment.

It’s not.

 _I did, thank you_ Jehan says. _I would have got in touch but I appear to have your phone._

 _and my jacket?_ Montparnasse replies, for lack of anything smarter to say.

_The jacket is mine now, I’m keeping it._

Montparnasse sits up in his seat, intrigued.

_oh really? pretty sure stealing is a sin, St. Jehan_

_What’s sinful is how good I look in it._

Jehan sends a picture message.

Montparnasse waits as it loads, ignoring Claquesous’ curious glances.

The picture opens. Montparnasse nearly drops his phone.

It’s a selfie.

Taken in a mirror with fairy lights woven around it and Montparnasse gets a strange little thrill when he realises that this must be Jehan’s bedroom.  
  
Jehan who is wearing Montparnasse’s jacket.

Jehan who appears to be wearing _only_ Montparnasse’s jacket.

Not that he can see much: the lower half of their face, lips curled in a faint smile, hair tumbling messily over their shoulders. 

The jacket is slightly too big, like he imagined it would be. It’s unzipped, revealing a narrow streak of bare skin from the base of Jehan’s throat all the way down until the picture cuts off, just above their waist.  
  
Montparnasse has worn that jacket without a shirt once before when he’d stripped off after an unusually messy job. The lining is satin, he remembers how it felt silky and cool against his skin.

The thought of Jehan’s body where his body has been, sharing space, is almost unbearably intimate.

It shouldn’t be. He’s kissed them, had his hands on them, skin to skin. 

And yet.

He gets caught on the little details. Jehan’s phone cover is glittery plastic with dried flowers frozen in it and they haven’t repainted their nails since Saturday, the dark burgundy slightly chipped now.

Montparnasse knows he’s waiting too long to respond, but he can’t quite get his brain back online. He’s halfway to telling Jehan to keep it, keep everything, take whatever they want, when they send another text.

 _I am, of course, joking._ _I can give them back to you whenever._

Montparnasse starts to reply but another message comes through. 

_Or I can give them to Feuilly to give to you…?_

_I’d much rather get them from you,_ Montparnasse sends quickly. _what are your plans for the weekend?_

_No plans. I’m free Saturday?_

_saturday then, it’s a date._

Montparnasse sends the message without thinking then sits bolt upright when he sees what he’s done.

“Shit!”  
  
“Wha?” Gueulemer startles and rolls off the couch. “Fuck!”  


“Je suis entouré d’idiots,” Claquesous mutters, helping Gueulemer sit up.  


Montparnasse stares at the ‘typing a response’ indication on his phone screen and prays for a swift and painless death.

_Sounds good,_ Jehan sends, and Montparnasse collapses back in his seat.

“Fucking christ,” he drops his phone on his chest and buries his face in his hands.

Claquesous shakes his head. “You have zero chill, man.”

“What’s going on?” Gueulemer asks, still half asleep and leaning up against Claquesous’ knees.  
  
“Nothing,” Montparnasse replies, unable to stop an embarrassing smile spreading across his face.

He has a _date_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of you for reading and special thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment or send me nice messages, it really means a lot to me. You're all amazing ♥
> 
> Translations:  
> Bonsoir messieurs - good evening gentlemen  
> Rien que des putes et racailles - nothing but whores and thugs (u kno he ded)  
> Père Noël - Santa  
> habibi - Arabic term of endearment, like sweetheart/honey  
> Laissez moi mourir - let me die  
> crème de menthe - mint liqueur (gross)  
> Enchanté - pleased to meet you  
> Société Anonyme des Artistes, Peintres, Sculpteurs, Graveurs, etc - the Anonymous Society of Painters, Sculptors, Engravers, etc  
> Et Littéralement Satan - and Literally Satan  
> prénom - first name  
> T'es un bon ami - you're a good friend  
> Je m’en fous - I don't care  
> Je te tuerai - I will kill you  
> Je suis entouré d’idiots - I am surrounded by idiots.
> 
> The incredibly lovely and talented Mei has drawn artwork for this fic! Go check it out!


	6. Chapter 6

On Saturday it rains.

Montparnasse wakes to a city cloaked in white, the sky sulky with clouds. It’s early and he stays in bed for a while watching raindrops race each other down the windowpane.

He hasn’t told anyone he’s meeting Jehan.

He‘d thought about it, the high of talking to them had lasted until Wednesday evening when he realised he’d never been on an actual, honest-to-god date before and as such has no idea what you’re supposed to do on them. 

Éponine had been watching him pace distractedly around the apartment when she’d asked if he was ok, and he nearly told her then, but something stopped him.

Telling her would encourage another stern talk about not corrupting Jehan’s innocence, Montparnasse smirks to himself at that, and explaining that he’s hoping for more than just something casual… he’s not ready to deal with that.

Claquesous, Gueulemer and Bizarro are out of the question. Gueulemer would probably be the nicest about it but he can’t keep his mouth shut around the others and Montparnasse is not interested in managing the fallout from that big reveal yet either.

He could’ve told Grantaire. Grantaire would have listened, undoubtedly, and probably been supportive and possibly even helpful, but ultimately Montparnasse doesn’t want to share.

This thing with Jehan, it’s his. Theirs. Whatever it is, whatever it means - and Montparnasse still has no idea on that front - he wants to keep it to himself for now.  


They’re meeting at three o’clock, Jehan had texted him the name of a café on a street in Pigalle. Montparnasse knows the 18th arrondissement like the back of his hand but it’s rare for him to spend any time there during daylight hours. He’s looking forward to it, the novelty of doing something as normal as meeting for coffee. 

Mostly though, he’s nervous.

 _You’re being ridiculous_ , he tells his reflection as he fusses with his hair, trying to get it to do the casually dishevelled thing it does of its own accord most days but refuses to now when it actually matters.

Jehan’s seen him drunk in his underwear, straddling Grantaire’s lap, gleefully beating the shit out of someone. His hair refusing to cooperate is not the thing that will make or break this date.

 _But what if it isn’t a date_ , the worst part of his brain whispers malevolently, _you’re the one who said it, not them. Maybe they just want to give you your stuff back so they never have to see you again._

“Shut up,” Montparnasse says out loud.  
  
“Bit early to be talking to yourself, isn’t it?” Éponine says from the doorway.  
  
“You can shut up too,” Montparnasse mutters, moving aside so she can get to the sink to brush her teeth.

“What are you doing today?” Éponine asks around her toothbrush.

“Got a hot date,” Montparnasse tells her and rears back when she laughs, spluttering toothpaste everywhere.  
  
“Gross, Ponine.”

"Désolé ," Éponine grins, “have fun on your ‘date’.”

Montparnasse sneers at her and heads back to his bedroom to get dressed. On his unmade bed his phone is flashing and Montparnasse’s stomach sinks.

It’s not from Jehan, though. It’s from Glorieux.

_Meeting tonight, my place. 8pm. Not quarter past. Not half past. Not 9. 8pm._

Montparnasse sighs. “Shit.”   
  
Outside the wind picks up, whipping rain against the glass.

Two hours later finds him sidestepping tourists on Boulevard de Clichy, a flurry of novelty umbrellas decorated with tacky pictures of the Tour Eiffel scattering drizzle as they group together in the middle of the pavement like lost ducklings.

Montparnasse is late.

Jehan has his jacket, which means he had to pick a different coat to wear since it’s raining and too cold to go without. This lead to him changing his whole outfit twice, before settling on the first thing he’d put on.

When he gets to the café Jehan suggested they meet at he’s irritated and anxious and his hair is a complete write-off thanks to the weather. The tables outside under the heaters are empty, the wind is blowing the rain around and even with the canopy and a blanket you’d get soaked sitting there.

Montparnasse heads inside, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and running fingers through his hair in a last ditch attempt to tidy it.

The café is old fashioned, traditional. The decor doesn’t look as if it’s been updated since the Sixties. There’s an elderly couple sharing the paper and a chocolat in one corner, three students huddled over a pile of folders and notebooks in another. Behind the counter a man absently rubs at the bar top with a rag, attention fully focused on the television showing a football game rerun.

Jehan’s not there. 

Montparnasse is just pulling his phone out of his pocket - squashing the avalanche of panic telling him that he got the wrong day, the wrong time, the wrong place, that they changed their mind - when the door opens behind him.  
  
“Hi, sorry I’m late, I’m always late, I should have warned you,” Jehan smiles sheepishly at him, shaking water from their folded umbrella. They’ve got their hair braided up in a coronet and it’s sparkling with raindrops, stray wisps sticking to their flushed cheeks.

“It’s fine,” Montparnasse returns their smile. “I just got here.”

They hover by the door for a long minute, just looking at each other. Jehan is wearing Montparnasse’s jacket and it clashes hilariously with their umbrella, which is bright red and patterned to look like a strawberry. 

“Do you want to sit down?” Jehan asks and Montparnasse clears his throat and nods.  
  
“Sure.”

“Feuilly says hello,” Jehan says as they move away from the door.

“He’s not working today?” Montparnasse hadn’t considered that Jehan would tell anyone they were meeting him, he’d assumed they’d want to keep it to themself. He doesn’t mind, he finds, and anyway Feuilly is the lesser of several evils.  
  
“Oh no, he is,” Jehan says. “I saw him last night. This morning? When he got in from his night shift.”

“Which job is that?”

“The hotel concierge one, he quit the security guard post. He’s working at the bistro this evening.”

Montparnasse fights a grin. He’d bet Bahorel that Feuilly would leave the security job in under a month and it looks like he’s won. Of course, Montparnasse had an unfair advantage - he’d encountered some of the other men who worked for that particular firm before and without fail they were all insufferable, macho-posturing wankers.

They settle at a table near the window. Jehan shrugs out of Montparnasse’s jacket and passes it to him with a smile. 

“Here, your phone’s in the pocket.”

“Thanks.” Montparnasse takes the jacket and manages not to do anything incredibly weird or inappropriate, like running his fingertips over the collar where the leather is probably still warm from Jehan’s skin. 

Under the jacket Jehan’s wearing the fluffiest black angora sweater dress Montparnasse has ever seen. They’ve cut holes in the sleeves for their thumbs and paired it with leggings and combat boots. It’s an interesting choice for the weather but the dress looks warm and soft and Montparnasse wants to touch it. He drags his eyes back up to their face.

“How did you and Feuilly end up living together, anyway?” he asks.

“Sort of by accident, really,” Jehan fiddles with the drinks menu on the table. “I have my own place but I don’t like living alone. R was staying with me for a while before he moved in with Joly and Bossuet. The place Feuilly was living was not very nice, so when R moved out I offered him my spare room.”  
  
“And he said yes?”

“Well,” Jehan sighs, “not at first. I shouldn’t have offered him the room for free, probably.”

“Hm.”  
  
“My apartment’s close to all his jobs, so he couldn’t really say no. He wouldn’t agree to live there without paying, so I looked up the average rent for the arrondissement and refused to charge him any more than that.”

Montparnasse nods. Feuilly’s proud but he’s pragmatic and although they’re all well aware that the average rent for the whole of the 18th is wildly different to the average for Montmartre, where Montparnasse is pretty sure Jehan’s apartment is, they’re undoubtedly the kind of person who could do you a favour and make it seem like you’re the one helping them out.

“Most of what he pays goes towards our food bills anyway, he does all the shopping since I always forget. And the rest usually finds it’s way into the fundraisers the ABC supports.”

“That’s kind of devious,” Montparnasse says, impressed.

“I told him from the start that’s what I was going to do with the money,” Jehan shrugs. “I wouldn’t deceive any of my friends like that, I don’t want to insult him. But if I can afford to help the people I love, why wouldn’t I?”  


The waitress comes over to take their order and when she’s gone they fall into silence. 

It’s not awkward, precisely, but there’s a tension that’s different to any of their previous encounters. A kind of unspoken expectation because this time they’re here together by design, not by chance.

Montparnasse drums his fingers on the table, an old tell, before making himself stop. Jehan’s watching him with a curious look on their face.

“What?”  
  
“It’s just,” Jehan smiles, looking slightly embarrassed. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in the daytime. It’s odd.”  
  
“Did you expect me to burst into flames if I went outside when the sun was up?” Montparnasse asks, amused.  
  
“Technically it’s cloudy enough that you’d probably be safe.”  
  
“That depends on your lore though, doesn’t it?” Montparnasse asks and Jehan’s face lights up.  
  
“Ah,” they say, folding their arms on the table and leaning forward with a smile. “You’re a traditionalist.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far, but some things are sacrosanct.”  
  
“And vampires being vulnerable to sunlight is one of those things?” The waitress brings them their drinks and Jehan pauses to thank her. “Tell me, what are your thoughts on apotropaics?”

Jehan’s studying medieval literature, Montparnasse discovers, but they’re just as comfortable debating the various merits of Anne Rice versus Billy Martin as they are with hagiographies and the Divine Comedy.

Talking about literature is easy with Jehan. They seem to have read everything, any book he’s heard of and then a further ten titles on top of that. With anyone else Montparnasse might feel threatened, the gaps in his knowledge bringing out spikier responses, attempts to change the subject, but they have a way of making the conversation flow until he’s just enjoying himself instead.

Jehan has strong opinions on what they like and don’t like but they rarely make judgement calls about personal preference. “Everyone has different tastes, it’s a good thing,” they shrug. “People should be free to enjoy whatever appeals to them.”

The topic drifts from books to films, where Claquesous’ penchant for classic horror serves Montparnasse well and they wax lyrical for a while on the charms of Nosferatu, Vampyr and Dracula.

“Ultimately though, The Lost Boys is the best vampire film of all time,” Montparnasse says. “The 80s were a lot of things, but they did pop-horror right. Cheesy soundtrack, mullets, flagrant homoeroticism: it’s got everything.”

Jehan laughs, “I suppose. I thought you’d prefer Interview.”

Montparnasse wrinkles his nose. “Tom Cruise.”  
  
“A fair point. I quite liked Låt den rätte komma in.”  
  
“I haven’t seen that one, Gueulemer has a thing about creepy children.”

“It’s interesting. I think the sexy vampire trope is kind of overrated,” Jehan says, chin resting on their hand. “Monstrous things should be monstrous, don’t you think?”  
  
“But isn’t that the point?” Montparnasse asks, on his second coffee and feeling slightly jittery. “The illusion of beauty disguising the evil beneath? Vampires are an allegory for sex and death, the dangers of vanity, a memento mori to the fleeting nature of youth. What’s more monstrous than that?”

“Le beau est toujours bizarre,” Jehan muses. 

“Right, and beauty is power,” Montparnasse nods. “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

“You would say that,” Jehan says with an indulgent smile and Montparnasse isn’t sure if it’s the caffeine or something else that makes his heart skip.  


The loose strands of Jehan’s hair that escaped their braid are drying in little curls against their neck. Montparnasse wants to reach out and wind them around his fingers. Jehan tests his impulse control like nothing else but the wanting is somehow sweeter for it.

“I’m glad you texted me,” Jehan says. “I was planning on asking Éponine for your number but I wasn’t sure what good it would do while I had your phone.”

Montparnasse nods, not sure if he wants to broach the subject of last weekend. A lot happened, he’s still not sure exactly where they stand with each other. 

Jehan, it seems, has no such qualms.

“I was pleased to see you at R’s. Before, you know,” they give a stilted little wave of their fingers that somehow manages to convey: _before you insulted me and ignored me and then followed me out of the club like I’d put a leash on you and spilled your guts all over the street._

“Are we talking about that then?”

“You said you liked me,” Jehan says, watching Montparnasse from under lowered lashes. They’ve got dark eyeliner on today, smudged a little from the rain, and it brings out the gold in their irises.  
  
“I said I’d been thinking about you,” Montparnasse argues, half flirting half on the defensive, because what has Jehan given him really besides the suggestion of a kiss, the promise of something more that never quite happened? Montparnasse is the one who brought _feelings_ into it, much to his horror, but he’s not going to be the first to show his hand again.  
  
Jehan’s smile is coy and knowing. “What did you think about?”  
  
Montparnasse doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, judging by the way Jehan’s looking at him.

“I should probably say, I have been thoroughly warned against associating with you,” Jehan says and their smile only grows, as if they can think of nothing more appealing than going directly against said warnings.

“Is that so,” Montparnasse says, “I do love when people talk about me. What did they tell you?”

“Oh,” Jehan stirs sugar into their coffee. “All sorts of things.”

“Am I a rake and a fiend?” Montparnasse leans forward in his chair. “Is your reputation impugned by the very sight of me?”

Jehan laughs and Montparnasse’s stomach turns over, he’s equally pleased and terrified to find that they are no less beautiful in the light of day.

“Apparently,” Jehan drags the word out, “you are a liar and a cheat and a petty criminal,” they raise an eyebrow and lick the foam off their spoon.

“ _Petty_?” Montparnasse sits back, feigning outrage. “I am not a petty anything, I am a first-rate criminal thank you very much.” He watches Jehan carefully, but so far they don’t seem remotely fazed by whatever they’ve heard. “I assume it was Courfeyrac who gave you such a damning account of my character?”

“He might have said something along those lines. Actually it was mostly Enjolras who seemed certain you were going to steal me away and lock me in a dungeon somewhere.”

“Interesting that that’s where his mind went,” Montparnasse says, fiddling absently with the handle of his empty coffee cup. “Enjolras and I, we’ve had our differences in the past.”

“Differences of opinion?” 

“Among other things,” Montparnasse studies Jehan’s face. “He may have stumbled across me and R in a somewhat compromising position and taken offence to it,” he says, keeping a careful eye out to see how they react. 

He shouldn’t have worried, Jehan’s eyes brighten with mischief and they lean across the table eagerly. “Was he jealous?” they ask, sounding thrilled.

Montparnasse shrugs. “I think so, although you know he’d never admit it.”

“I didn’t know you and R were together.”

“We weren’t really _together_ exactly. I don’t think he told anyone.”  
  
Jehan frowns. “Why?”  
  
“I don’t know, it wasn’t that serious? And, well. You’ve had the warning talks, I’m sure he wanted to avoid all of that.”  
  
Jehan hums and sips their coffee. “So what happened?”  
  
“Do you remember Grantaire’s birthday last year?” Jehan grimaces. “Ah, I can see from your expression that you do.”  
  
“R came to a meeting drunk and he and Enjolras had a huge fight,” Jehan says and Montparnasse nods. “To be fair,” Jehan adds, “Enjolras didn’t know it was R’s birthday. If he had-”

“If he had, they still would have had a huge fight, because R would have goaded him into it even harder.”

Jehan sighs. “You’re probably right.”  
  
“I’m definitely right. Anyway, so they had their big fight and Enjolras stormed out, were you there for that?”  
  
“I was.”  
  
“Did you leave with everyone after that?”  
  
“Yes, only Bossuet and Bahorel stayed behind with Grantaire.”  
  
“Well once he’d convinced them he was fine, fine enough to be left to his own devices at least, he called me.”  
  
“And you came.”

“It was his birthday, he was upset. Anyway, I went and found him upstairs in the café and we were, ah, spending some quality time together when Enjolras walked in, looking for R. To apologise, I assume, although he might have thought of a particularly withering come back he needed to share.”  
  
“Oh dear,” Jehan winces. “I don’t imagine that went well.”

“It could have been handled better by all parties, if I’m honest,” Montparnasse admits. “For starters, it would have been nice of R to let me know that Enjolras was stood in the doorway for a good minute while I was sucking him off.”  
  
“Merde,” Jehan’s hand flies to their mouth, but Montparnasse is almost certain it’s to hold in a disbelieving laugh. “What did Enjolras do?”  
  
“Nothing,” Montparnasse shrugs. “I imagine he left at some point since R charged out of there rather quickly after that.”  
  
“He ran after him?” Jehan says. “And left you behind?”  
  
“On my knees like, what the fuck just happened?” Montparnasse grins. He can laugh about it now, here, with Jehan looking amused and outraged on his behalf. It hadn’t been quite so funny at the time.

“Wow,” Jehan shakes their head.

“Mm, so that is why Enjolras is not particularly fond of me. Plus I think half of what comes out of his mouth is naïve, privileged nonsense and I’m not afraid to tell him so.”

Montparnasse isn’t going to mention what happened a few weeks later, when Enjolras had cornered Montparnasse in the Corinthe and, with none of his usual flair, haltingly stumbled over a speech that was half a threat half a plea that he treat Grantaire kindly.

Montparnasse had laughed in his face and told him to go fuck himself.

In his own defence, Grantaire had just broken things off between them, for good that time as it would turn out, and he was feeling more than a little sore about it. 

Jehan looks faintly stunned and Montparnasse is suddenly worried that he’s gone too far.  
  
But, “It’s really astounding how two people who are so clever can be so incredibly clueless,” they say, and Montparnasse snorts.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Well, that explains Enjolras I suppose. And you were mean to Marius, which means you’re on Courf’s shitlist for life.”  
  
“Oh no, however shall I go on,” Montparnasse deadpans.  
  
“I don’t know how you could, it’s like kicking a puppy,” Jehan says, their voice heavy with mock disapproval.

“A puppy with negligible boundaries and zero emotional awareness,” Montparnasse points out. “A puppy that followed my sister around for months until she agreed to date him.”

“Just like a real puppy,” Jehan smiles. “And it wasn’t like that, you know. He didn’t know how to ask her out.”  
  
“I imagine using words usually helps.”  
  
“Oh?” Jehan’s smile widens and Montparnasse suddenly feels like he’s walked into a very obvious trap. “And how’s that working out for you?”  


“Look at that, the rain’s stopped,” Montparnasse points out, peering out of the window. “Do you want to move outside or do something else? Unless you have to go…”  


“No, not yet, do you?”  
  
Montparnasse checks his phone. “Not until seven.”

“Well then,” Jehan rests their fingers briefly on the back of Montparnasse’s hand and his stomach does that unnerving swoopy thing again. “I do have one idea.”

~

Outside the afternoon is cool but without the rain hanging heavy overhead the city feels lighter.  
  
Jehan is still wearing his jacket.  
  
“Did you bring something else to wear?” Montparnasse asked as they got ready to leave the café and Jehan had paused.  
  
“Oh,” they blinked, “no. I didn’t.”

Montparnasse doesn’t mind.

Jehan leads the way up Rue des Martyrs, pointing out the best pâtisserie on the street as they pass, as well as their favourite antique shop, which predictably appears to be full to overflowing with weird taxidermy, ossuaries and disembodied doll heads.  


“Really?” Montparnasse asks when they come to a halt at the top of the street. “A thrift store?”  
  
The shop is small, the big front window dressed with mannequins in an odd jumble of clothing, one in a beaded 1920s flapper dress, another in a twinset and pearls topped with a moth-eaten cloche.  
  
“It’s not a thrift store, it’s a vintage shop,” Jehan clasps his elbow to gently steer him past the threshold and all of Montparnasse’s protests fall away at the touch of their hand.

Inside the shop is a riot of colour, a treasure chest of fabrics and textures. Montparnasse narrowly avoids walking into a hat stand bedecked with chiffon scarves and, in doing so, bumps his elbow on a display cabinet full of gaudy costume jewellery. 

Jehan greets the shopkeeper by name and somehow Montparnasse is not surprised to learn that they come here often enough to be on friendly terms with the staff.  
  
“Come on, through here,” they say, leading him deeper into the back of the shop where the walls are hung with rails of clothing from floor to ceiling, vaguely organised into decades like the wardrobe of a rich elderly eccentric.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of creepy?” Montparnasse asks, eyeing a row of old shoes stretched out from years of wear, wrinkled leather gaping open like slack mouths. “People could have died in these clothes.”

Jehan gives him a look. “I’m fairly certain they’re not trawling the morgues for 50s Dior,” they say, plucking a skirt off a rail and waving it to illustrate their point.

“That’s a reproduction,” Montparnasse says, “and anyway, I meant donations.”

“How can you tell?” Jehan asks, frowning at the skirt.

“The length is all wrong, the new look hit lower on the calf than that.”

“Huh,” Jehan hangs the skirt back up and looks around the shop calculatingly. 

Behind the counter the shop assistant is staring at her phone and pointedly ignoring them.

“So, what is real in here?” Jehan asks.

Montparnasse looks around at the walls of clothes and nods towards the 70s and 80s section.  


“Most of those, probably.”  
  
Jehan runs a hand along a rack of dresses, sifting through satin and crepe, glitter lycra and printed cotton.

“Biba,” Montparnasse leans over their shoulder to pull out a dark purple mini-dress. “This one’s real.” Jehan hides a smile. “What?”  
  
“Nothing,” they look up at him and Montparnasse realises how close he’s standing. “Just, I knew you’d like it in here.”  
  
Montparnasse huffs and turns away to look at a collection of battered leather jackets. “You should get one of these.”  
  
“I’d rather keep yours,” Jehan says, holding the dress up against themself and looking in one of the mirrors propped up at odd intervals around the shop. “How did you get to be such an expert on vintage fashion anyway?”  
  
Montparnasse’s hands still briefly where they’re sorting through the jackets.  
  
“Éponine’s mother used to be very into fashion,” he says eventually. “Or at least she wanted people to think she was, so she pretended to be. She had all these back copies of magazines laying around and we used to read through them over and over. Azelma didn’t have a lot of books, so Éponine and Cosette would tell her stories about the people in the photo shoots instead. I suppose that’s where it started.”  
  
The four of them crammed under a blanket on Cosette’s bottom bunk, Éponine wielding a torch like a sword while she narrated how the brave princess in her Lacroix tulle ballgown fled the cruel tyrannical king and his questionable Versace casual wear. Those beautiful people and their beautiful clothes were as far removed from their reality as any fairytale.  
  
“All my clothes were hand me downs from the other fosters and I hated it. Fashion is symbolic, people treat you according to how you dress. I learned that pretty quickly.” Jehan’s watching him in the mirror, their expression contemplative. “Also, I like pretty things,” Montparnasse winks at them and they laugh.  
  
“You are terrible.”   
  
“True,” Montparnasse wanders over to the 20s and 30s section and Jehan follows, purple dress folded over one arm.

“When I was little I used to love going through my mother’s armoire,” they say. “She had beautiful clothes, everything scented with sachets of rose petals. I still remember the smell. She thought it was funny, that I was always stealing her shoes and scarves and jewellery,” Jehan lingers over a silk blouse with a water stain on one sleeve. “I’m not sure when it stopped being funny and became something to be concerned about. Puberty, presumably.”

Montparnasse watches them from the corner of his eye.

“That’s when they sent me away to school.”

“That worked out well for them then,” Montparnasse says and Jehan smiles that little secret smile that makes him want to kiss them breathless. “What did you do after you were expelled?”  
  
“I went to live with my grand-mère who home-schooled me, or tried to,” Jehan says. “She lived in a big crumbling old farm house in Brittany and I was the youngest person for miles around. She let me do whatever I wanted a lot of the time, didn’t care if I ran wild as long as I studied as well. She taught me languages and literature and religion and history. No maths, very little science. Mostly how to identify plants and which ones are good for healing,” Jehan smiles, “and which are good for the opposite.”

“She was a witch?”

“Of a sort. She was an anachronism, this crotchety old catholic matron who read Wilde aloud at the dinner table and had me perform monologues for her every Sunday after church. Probably the worst influence I could have had, according to my father.”  
  
There’s a sort of joyful grief in Jehan’s eyes when they speak that tugs at something in Montparnasse’s chest. “You loved her a lot.”  
  
“I adored her,” Jehan confirms. “She died when I was seventeen and left me her apartment in the city, which I never knew existed before then. My parents sold her house and tried to convince me to sell as well, but instead I moved here. We haven’t really spoken since.”  
  
“It sounds like she’d have been proud of you for doing that.”  
  
“I think she’d have liked you,” Jehan says and smiles when Montparnasse stares at them.  
  
“What about this one,” he asks, instead of addressing that, and shoves a 30s style bias cut dress in dark green satin at Jehan. “It’s not authentic, but the colour would suit you.”  
  
“It’s lovely,” Jehan beams up at him and Montparnasse feels lightheaded. “I’m going to try these on.”  
  
“Ok,” Montparnasse nods, looking around for something to busy himself with while they do that.  
  
“This way, the dressing rooms are downstairs,” Jehan says, catching hold of his arm and heading for the staircase in the corner of the room.

“Oh, right,” Montparnasse does his best not to trip over his own feet as they descend.

The basement level of the shop is even stranger than upstairs, a liminal space crowded with old furniture and racks of coats like hunched figures looming out of the shadows. Jehan moves with practiced ease through a winding labyrinth of feather boa draped mannequins missing various limbs.  
  
“This place is a shoplifters dream,” Montparnasse says under his breath as he follows them.  
  
“There’s a camera,” Jehan nods to the far corner of the room where, on second glance, there’s a tiny red light flashing from the brim of a top hat perched jauntily atop a stuffed fox head.  
  
“How do you know that?” Montparnasse asks as Jehan blows it a kiss.  
  
“I got caught,” Jehan smiles back over their shoulder at him. “It was a few years ago now. I was sure I was going to be in big trouble but the owner thought I was sweet so she let me off.”  
  
“Of course she did,” Montparnasse shakes his head. “You are a menace.”  
  
Jehan looks quite pleased with themself at that. “I’ll be in here,” they say, ducking behind the heavy red velvet curtain that leads to the dressing room.  
  
Montparnasse perches on a rickety writing desk, stacked high with boxes of mismatched suede gloves, and tries not to think too hard about the hushed sound of cloth shifting as Jehan undresses.  
  
“The other night,” Jehan says through the curtain, “you said you’d talked to Feuilly. I’m guessing he didn’t try to warn you away from me with tales of my misspent youth smuggling vintage stockings out of here in my pockets.”  
  
“He failed to mention your dark history as a clothes thief. I should have known when you ran off with my jacket.”  
  
“I’m not sure that counts,” Jehan counters, “considering you handed it to me. Was that for dramatic effect, by the way, or was it some sort of tactical street fighting move?”  
  
“Not really,” Montparnasse watches shadows moving under the bottom of the curtain. “I just didn’t want to get blood on it.”  
  
Jehan laughs and whisks the faded velvet aside. “What do you think? It’s a little bit big, but I think I can alter it.”  
  
The Biba dress suits them, the colour complements their complexion and the cut is nice if, as they said, a little loose. Jehan’s wearing mismatched socks, Frida Kahlo frowns up at him from one, Edvard Munch’s The Scream is slightly warped on the other where it’s sagging around one freckled ankle. Montparnasse tilts his head and considers them.  
  
“Perfect.”  
  
Jehan blushes and tucks more escaping strands of hair behind their ears, turning to check their reflection in the mirror.  
  
“Speaking of the other night, you weren’t too freaked out that I got in a fight?” Montparnasse asks because it’s been bothering him on and off and he’d rather know now. “I wasn’t sure when you disappeared so quickly.”

“Um,” Jehan’s blush deepens. “No. When Feuilly came back with Bahorel he brought Courfeyrac and we all had to leave pretty fast.”

“But it didn’t upset you?”  
  
Jehan won’t meet his eyes.  
  
“No,” they say again, stepping back into the dressing room and drawing the curtain. “That guy deserved it. And you looked like you knew what you were doing.”

“I definitely know what I’m doing,” Montparnasse says and in the dressing room Jehan drops something.

_“Terrible,”_ Jehan mutters and Montparnasse smirks.

“I like this one,” Jehan opens the curtain.

The dress clings to them like a second skin, a sheaf of dark forest green tumbling from their shoulders to the floor. With their hair like a crown and kohl dark eyes they could have stepped straight out of the pages of one of the magazines Montparnasse remembers. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Look at you.”

“Is it too much, do you think?”  
  
Montparnasse hops down from the desk and reaches out a hand to Jehan who takes it and, with a little encouragement, does a bashful twirl.  
  
“Never,” Montparnasse grins. “No such thing.”  
  
“Where would I wear it?” Jehan asks, their hand still clasped in his own.  
  
“Where wouldn’t you wear it,” Montparnasse steps closer until Jehan’s looking up at him.  
  
“A very convincing argument,” Jehan says, their free hand coming up to rest on Montparnasse’s shoulder like they’re going to break into a waltz.  
  
“Jehan,” the shop assistant calls down the stairs, shattering the moment. "It's six o'clock. I have to close."  


“We should go,” Montparnasse steps back but Jehan follows him.  
  
“Could you get the zip?” they ask innocently, turning around to show Montparnasse their back.  
  
The dress has a long zip from the waistband to just below the nape of Jehan’s neck. Montparnasse slowly pulls it down, teeth parting to reveal bare skin beneath. Jehan meets his eyes in the mirror and they bite their lip when Montparnasse deliberately brushes his fingers along the line of their spine, goosebumps forming in their wake.  
  
“Thank you,” Jehan says, voice low, and they keep their eyes on his as Montparnasse makes himself step away and close the curtain.

Montparnasse waits for Jehan to get dressed and follows them back up the stairs. He stands quietly at their side while they pay and holds the door for them when they leave the shop. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on the angle of their wrist where the shopping bag loops over it or the curve of their hip as they straighten their skirt. They stand side by side on the street looking down the hill and Montparnasse imagines he can feel every atom of distance between his body and theirs, the air seems to hum with his conscious effort to not reach out and touch them.

“You have to go soon, don’t you?” Jehan asks.

“I have a little while still.”  
  
“Are you hungry?”  
  
“Is that pâtisserie still open?”  
  
Jehan shifts the shopping bag to their other hand. “It should be.”  
  
They walk back down the road and Jehan leans in close to his side. The pâtisserie is open, and once inside Jehan keeps up a steady stream of flattering chatter about their confections that leads to them walking away with a bag full of complimentary samples along with a tray of extortionately expensive macarons.

“Jehan Prouvaire, you could charm birds from trees,” Montparnasse says as they make off with the ill-gotten gains and Jehan smiles, lips sticky with sugar.

The evening is setting in, shadows lengthening and streets bustling with people on their way home from work. The Place des Abbesses is busy, in the Square Jehan-Rictus children shriek as they chase one another around the park and there’s the usual crowd of people taking photographs in front of the Love wall.  
  
“So,” Jehan says as they make their way very slowly towards the metro, “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Montparnasse lets the scarred points of his knuckles brush against the back of their hand. “Yes?”  
  
“Was this really a date?” they shoot him a sideways glance after they ask, a flash of teeth biting into their lower lip.  


“Would you like it to have been a date?”  
  
“You can’t do that, I asked you first.”  
  
Montparnasse smirks and finally slides his fingers through Jehan’s.  
  
“It was a date if you want it to have been a date,” he offers.  
  
“I do. Want that.” Jehan replies and Montparnasse pulls them over to the side of the street out of the way of passing pedestrians.  
  
“Good,” he says, and Jehan’s smile is like a sunrise.  
  
“If this was a date,” they say, “does that mean you’re going to kiss me goodbye?”  
  
“On the first date?” Montparnasse pantomimes shock. “What kind of boy do you take me for?”  
  
Jehan flashes that dirty little smile again. “A bad one,” they say. “And you know, technically you could argue that this is our second date.”  
  
“How do you figure that?” Montparnasse smiles back and finally gives in to the irrepressible urge to tuck the loose strands of hair behind their ear.  
  
“We went dancing,” Jehan points out. “Even if we didn’t dance together, I think that still counts.”

“Oh,” Montparnasse says, leaning in, “well, in that case.”  
  
Jehan tilts their chin up and kisses him. They taste like coffee and raspberries from the macarons and if kissing them drunk was holy fire this is banked embers flaring to life, warming from the inside out. Montparnasse slides a hand up to cup the back of their neck and Jehan sways into him, slips their arms around his waist.

It feels shockingly intimate, like something they’ve been doing for years. Montparnasse thinks, crazily, that he never wants it to end.

It does, as all good things do, although Jehan doesn’t pull away from him immediately.

“You have to go,” they say, cheeks flushed and lips pink, and Montparnasse considers skipping the meeting and following Jehan wherever they’re going next, if they’ll let him. But his phone buzzes in his pocket and he sighs.

“Sadly I do.”  
  
“I should give you your jacket back,” Jehan says, reluctantly letting go of him.  
  
“Keep it,” Montparnasse reaches into the pocket to claim his old phone. “I can get it back next time.”  
  
“Next time, really,” Jehan raises their eyebrows.

“If you like.” 

“Ok then,” they smile. “Next time.”  
  
Montparnasse kisses them, too short, too brief, and drags himself away.  
  
“I’ll text you,” Jehan calls and when he turns to look back at them they’re standing at the top of the metro steps watching him go.

~

Once a month the various factions of Patron-Minette meet to discuss business.

Babet never bothers with small meetings and Claquesous, Gueulemer and Montparnasse’s presence is widely known to be a mere formality. They are some of the longest standing members of Patron-Minette still living, despite being the youngest, and Babet has never tried terribly hard to disguise her favouritism.

The meeting place changes each time and this week finds them in Glorieux’s apartment, all of them crammed in around his fancy coffee table. Glorieux’s place has the benefit of being in a nice building with video intercom on a private street. The police in the area are well under Babet’s thumb and there’s no surveillance, so they can come and go freely.

Montparnasse appreciates how much simpler it is to just walk up to the front door and be let into a warm, comfortable flat than when they used to have to break into empty buildings or lurk on street corners and under bridges

No one, least of all Glorieux himself, could have foreseen his role as right hand of the head of an underground criminal empire. When he met Babet she was working primarily with men like Finistere, men who’d worked side by side with her late husband. Men set in their ways, who found taking orders from a young Arabic woman extremely contentious. 

Babet had come to Montparnasse not long after her return and asked him if he thought Glorieux would be willing to work with her. Montparnasse had been happy for his friend, pleased that Babet trusted his opinion and was willing to offer a place to someone he cared about.

Glorieux is highly organised, tactically minded, charismatic and grew up knowing all the ins and outs of Paris’s seedy underbelly. His immediate reaction on meeting Babet had been suspicion and mistrust, ironically that was the thing that made her like him so much.

With Montparnasse’s blessing, Babet welcomed Glorieux into Patron-Minette and he very quickly became indispensable to her and the gang as a whole.

None of that makes these meetings any less tedious.

Montparnasse and Gueulemer had skipped the previous months, Claquesous was still missing and neither of them had been in any mood to go. Tonight all three of them are in attendance.

“You could at least pretend to be paying attention,” Gueulemer chastens out of the corner of his mouth.

Montparnasse doesn’t look up from where he’s playing cards with Laveuve, their tech specialist. So far everything they’ve discussed has been old news, things he knew about ages ago or that are so removed from his particular skill set as to be irrelevant.

Gueulemer hasn’t really been listening either, only staring vaguely in Glorieux’s direction with a glazed over expression.

“This is a waste of time,” Claquesous mutters, picking his nails with a knife he’d produced from some invisible pocket roughly two minutes into the meeting.

“I’m upping the stakes,” Laveuve says quietly, “if I win this hand, you owe me a new pair of shoes.”

“I hate lifting women’s shoes,” Montparnasse replies. “What am I supposed to do, wear them out of the shop? Shove six-inch heels up my sleeves?”  
  
“Figure it out,” Laveuve says with a challenging smile.

Glorieux gives them a dirty look from the other side of the room where he’s talking to Brujon, Homère and the others.

“What about Lapointe?” one of the newer recruits asks. Montparnasse doesn’t know his name, never bothers to ask until someone has stuck around longer than the first six months. “No one’s seen or heard from him since les enfants over there killed his men and there’s been rumours about retaliation, that’s not something we can just brush aside. Besides which, everyone knows it was them, I thought we were supposed to be working under the radar?”

In eerie synchrony long since perfected, Gueulemer, Claquesous and Montparnasse turn to stare at him. The new guy pales under the weight of their combined attention.  
  
“It’s being dealt with,” Claquesous says simply.

“Is that all you have to say? Lapointe wants revenge, why should we risk our lives out there when you-”

Claquesous flicks his knife point first into the coffee table, right in front of where new guy is sitting with his legs sprawled open, taking up more room than necessary.  
  
New guy swallows hard.  


“If Claquesous says it’s being dealt with, it’s being dealt with,” Glorieux says. “Claquesous, please refrain from sticking daggers in my fucking furniture.”

Carmagnolet clears her throat and the moment passes.

“Is it being dealt with?” Gueulemer asks Claquesous quietly.

Claquesous scoffs and leans across the table to retrieve his knife, smiling when new guy leans back in his seat to put distance between them.  
  
“Yes, of course it is,” he says, testing the tip of the blade against the pad of one finger. “You think I’m going to let him get away with what he tried to do to you?”  
  
Gueulemer smiles at Claquesous who looks away. Montparnasse rolls his eyes at Laveuve and she flutters her eyelashes and makes a kissy face.

Around them the meeting is breaking up, people filtering out in ones and twos, careful not to leave in too big of a group. New guy is one of the first out the door, ducking away from Claquesous’s cold stare.

“Shithead!” Laveuve crows, throwing down her last cards and planting a smeary red lipsticked kiss on Montparnasse’s cheek. “I win! How are you so bad at this?”  
  
“Excuse me for not excelling at a game where the point is to give everything away,” Montparnasse scrubs at his face with the sleeve of Gueulemer’s discarded hoodie.  
  
“There is so much I could say to that,” Glorieux says, sitting down at the table with them. “But I won’t because I’m nice.”

“The nicest,” Laveuve smiles at him and sweeps the cards up, shuffling them effortlessly. “Great meeting, boss. Really learned a lot. I’ll be sure to get working on all those important things you said that we were definitely listening to.”

“Get out of here,” Glorieux says and she scoops up her handbag and heads for the door, blowing a sarcastic kiss goodbye to Montparnasse as she goes.  
  
“Size 38, I’ll text you a picture!”

Montparnasse waves her away.  
  
“Please stop tormenting the new recruits,” Glorieux is saying to Claquesous.  
  
“But it’s so easy,” Claquesous leans against Gueulemer’s side with a smirk. “They’re all terrible.”  
  
“Not all of them. That one, maybe. I don’t think he’ll last long. I’m guessing you do actually have something in the works for Lapointe?”  
  
“I do,” Claquesous says, “there are a few options.”  
  
“I’d prefer the one with the least collateral damage, if at all possible,” Glorieux says in a tone that means he doesn’t hold out much hope.  
  
Claquesous narrows his eyes. “I make no promises.”  
  
“Of course you don’t,” Glorieux sighs.  
  
Brujon and Homère say their goodbyes and Glorieux stands to walk them out.  
  
“Is Biz working at the Corinthe this week?” Montparnasse asks Gueulemer.  
  
“Yeah, she’s got a ton of extra evening shifts. Why?”  
  
“Need to ask her something.”  
  
“You can’t just call her?” Gueulemer frowns.  
  
“I need her to ask Musichetta for a favour.”  
  
“Good luck,” Claquesous says darkly, “that woman is terrifying.”  
  
“Chetta’s lovely,” Gueulemer stands and stretches, Claquesous blinks hard as his t-shirt rides up. “I don’t know why you two don’t get along.”  
  
“She sees too much,” Claquesous mutters, tearing his eyes away from the sharply defined muscles of Gueulemer’s stomach.  
  
Montparnasse tries not to laugh.

Claquesous has never really recovered from his first meeting with Musichetta, Bizarro’s co-worker at the Corinthe and best friend.

When they were introduced she’d looked him over with knowing eyes and asked, “That one’s your boyfriend, right?” nodding across the bar to where Gueulemer was sitting with Bizarro. Claquesous had stared at her and she’d stared back, “Ah, I see. Not your boyfriend _yet_.”

“I didn't even know I liked him, how the fuck did _she_ know I like him?” Claquesous had slurred at Montparnasse later that night. He rarely got that drunk and Montparnasse felt he had been extremely generous in not taking any pictures of him passed out on Bizarro’s bed, clutching one of Gueulemer’s shirts to his chest.

“I’ll warn her you’re going to swing by,” Gueulemer smiles at Montparnasse and shrugs his hoodie on. “Are you coming?” he asks Claquesous.

“Yeah,” Claquesous stands as well and subtly gives Montparnasse the finger when he grins at them both.  
  
“Are you two leaving?” Glorieux asks, coming back into the room. “Claquesous, keep me updated on the Lapointe thing, will you?”  
  
Claquesous nods and they head out, leaving Glorieux and Montparnasse alone.

“Thank fuck,” Glorieux says. “I hate these meetings, they’re so boring. I’m having a drink, do you want one?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Montparnasse leans back in his chair.

Glorieux heads for the kitchen and Montparnasse lets his head fall back against the couch, staring up at the high ceilings of his apartment. It’s elegant and luxurious and ever so slightly too-much, a lot like Glorieux himself. He never could have pictured them in somewhere like this when they’d first been flung together in that shitty foster home, Glorieux just months away from emancipation and Montparnasse still bruised and aching from the loss of Babet.

“So, what do you think?” Glorieux asks, coming back with a glass of wine. “Should we be worried about this Lapointe thing?”  
  
“Probably not,” Montparnasse says. “He’s just some asshole with an over inflated opinion of himself. Watched too much shit tv and thinks he’s the next drug kingpin of Paris.”  
  
“He got the drop on you and Gee though, I don’t like that.”  
  
Montparnasse huffs. “He got lucky. We were distracted. Babet was right, we shouldn’t have been trying to work like that.”  
  
“You three are alarmingly co-dependant,” Glorieux agrees, sipping his drink. “It’d be sweet if it wasn’t such an enormous and obvious weak spot.”

“We work best as a team.”

“Is it going to be a problem once they finally get their shit together and start fucking?”  
  
Montparnasse frowns. “I don’t think so. I can’t see why it would be.”  
  
“When couples work dangerous jobs together they can get unpredictable. Overprotective.”  
  
“We’re all pretty unpredictable as it is,” Montparnasse says. “And if you think Claquesous and Gueulemer aren’t already weirdly overprotective of each other, and of me, you’re kidding yourself.”  
  
Glorieux hums. “Well, at least you’re aware of it. Anyway, enough work talk. How are your ribs?”  
  
“Fine. And that’s still work talk.”  
  
“Ok, well,” Glorieux shrugs. “I got nothing. My life is a never ending blur of highly illegal activities, stacks of cash and boring meetings.”  
  
“And you love it.”  
  
“And I love it,” Glorieux confirms taking a big swig of wine. “But you must have something interesting to tell me, it’s been weeks. Come on, thrill me.”  
  
Montparnasse shifts in his seat, not sure how to say it. There’s a reason he hung around tonight, after everyone else left.

“Spit it out, I’m not as young as I once was you know. It’s already past my bed time.”

“I’m sort of seeing someone,” Montparnasse says and Glorieux blinks at him.  
  
“Seeing someone. Like, dating? Not just a risky encounter down a dark alley, but actually dating?”

“A little less of the judgemental attitude would be appreciated.”

“Are you kidding? After all the shit you give Claquesous and Gueulemer? They must be tearing you to shreds over this.”  
  
“I, uh-” Montparnasse looks away. “I haven’t technically told them about it yet.”  
  
Glorieux stares. “Holy fuck,” he says. “You really like this person, don’t you?”  
  
“Glorieux-”  
  
“I cannot _believe,_ ” Glorieux says, a delighted grin slowly spreading across his cheeks.  
  
“Please don’t.”  
  
“Oh, you know I’m going to.”  


Montparnasse groans. 

“As your oldest friend-”

“Technically Éponine’s my oldest friend,” Montparnasse points out.

“As your _oldest friend_ , it is my duty to-”

“You’re not even my _oldest_ oldest friend, Babet-”

“Would you please shut up for five seconds?” Glorieux asks.

“Sorry,” Montparnasse grins.

“As I was saying… I forgot what I was saying. You’re seeing someone?”  
  
“Yeah.”

“Well, shit. What’s that like?”

“Weird. I mean, does it even count as dating if you’ve only been on one date? How the fuck do these things work?”

“You’re asking me? I’m flattered kiddo but you know, traditionally all my dates have ended with the exchange of a large sum of money. I’m not sure that’s what you’re going for.”

“You weren’t my first choice for relationship advice, you know,” Montparnasse says, like they both don’t know that’s a lie. “You’re the only one who doesn’t know them or their friends.”  
  
“Hm, so,” Glorieux leans back in his seat. “That means it must be one of your flatmate’s friends. Not the artist, that ended, didn’t it? But someone they know, or you’d be talking to him about it.”  
  
“ _Glorieux_ ,” Montparnasse whines.  
  
“It’s my job-”  
  
“To know everything, yeah, yeah, I know.”  


“Have you told Babet?”  
  
“No,” Montparnasse crosses his arm and sinks lower into the couch cushions. “She already thinks I should find someone nice and settle down.”  
  
“And… is that not exactly what you’re doing?” Glorieux asks and Montparnasse pouts.  
  
“Whatever. Besides, I’m sure she’ll find out soon enough now I’ve told you.”  
  
“You know I only tell her what she needs to know. Is this person an assassin? Are they a member of a rival gang? Wanted by Interpol?”  
  
Montparnasse laughs, trying to picture Jehan as a cold blooded killer, a figure of danger and malice. His laugh trails off and he clears his throat. _Shit_.

“No,” he says, “they’re definitely none of those things.”

“Then your secret’s safe with me. Just keep me in the loop, let me know if you’re going to propose or whatever.”  
  
Montparnasse chokes on air and sits up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”  
  
“Parnasse,” Glorieux says with a gentle smile, “despite the rules, you’ve _never_ talked to me about relationships before. Even Claquesous told me when the thing with Gueulemer started, although I’ve been threatened within an inch of my life to never mention that, so if he asks, I didn't tell you.”  
  
“Please, even Brujon’s noticed those two. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”  
  
“You’re serious about this, I can tell,” Glorieux says, not letting Montparnasse derail him.  
  
“Yeah, I guess,” he mutters. “What the fuck do I do?”  
  
Glorieux shrugs and sets his empty wine glass aside. “No idea. Haven’t been on a date that wasn’t work related in years. You want blowjob tips or the top five ways to tell if the person you’re having dinner with is carrying a concealed weapon, I’m your guy. Otherwise just go with what feels right.”  
  
“I’m good on both fronts, thanks,” Montparnasse says.  
  
“Good luck then,” Glorieux says and squeezes Montparnasse’s shoulders. “I wish you all the best.”  


~

Montparnasse is tangentially aware that there exists some sort of set of rules for dating, a list of things that are or are not done. Some of those rules, he believes, are about  texting after a date.

Fortunately, neither he nor Jehan seem to be all that interested in following rules in general.

He’d planned on texting them after he left Glorieux’s, only to find that Jehan had got there first. There was a message on his phone waiting for him, thanking him for a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. Montparnasse replied straight away, because who was he to keep them waiting?  
  
What he’s not sure about, however, is when is too soon to arrange to see someone again.

Luckily for him, Jehan takes that matter in hand as well.

It’s five am on Friday morning and Montparnasse is on a rooftop with Claquesous.

They’ve spent the night doing surveillance, for reasons that Claquesous hasn't deigned to explain. Montparnasse has a feeling he was asked along more for company than for his ability to observe men coming and going from a shitty bar. Claquesous doesn’t do anything without a good reason though, so Montparnasse had shrugged and gone with it when he’d asked him along.

The night is cold but not wet, thankfully, and the two of them spent the past few hours entertaining themselves by making up ever more elaborate backstories for the lowlives scuttling around in the streets below.

They’re getting ready to head home, the bar finally quiet, lights turned off, when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

“Stealthy,” Claquesous says. “You’re lucky that didn’t go off earlier.”

Montparnasse ignores him. They were far enough away that it wouldn’t have been an issue either way.

The text is from Jehan, of course. 

_Are you awake?_  


“Is that the same person you’ve been texting all week?” Claquesous asks.  
  
Montparnasse doesn’t reply.

“I’ll get it out of you eventually, you know.”

“Why don’t we talk about your relationship instead?” Montparnasse asks.

“Ah, so,” Claquesous smiles with quiet triumph, “it _is_ a relationship thing.”

Montparnasse glares at him. “I didn’t say that.”  
  
“You didn’t not say it either.”  
  
Montparnasse huffs and turns back to his phone.  
  
_I’m awake. why are you?_

_I couldn’t sleep_

Jehan sends a picture message. Montparnasse glances at Claquesous who is watching him silently, looking extremely entertained. The picture opens. It’s a landscape photo of the city, a blanket of golden lights twinkling against the sky.

Montparnasse recognises the view.

“I gotta go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
“Booty call?”  
  
Montparnasse pulls a face. “Please do not ever say those words to me again.”  
  
Claquesous laughs and when Montparnasse looks up from his phone, he’s vanished.  
  
“Don’t Batman me, asshole. It’s rude.”  
  
“Je suis la nuit,” Claquesous snarks from the shadows and Montparnasse flips him off.  
  
It’s not a long walk from the bar to where Jehan is but Montparnasse hurries anyway. He ducks through alleyways and jogs up steps, his breath clouding pale and damp in the morning air.

The Sacré-Cœur looms out of the darkness like the huge bleached skull of some ancient beast, wreathed in mist and faintly sinister in the quiet without it’s usual crowd of tourists, panhandlers and the occasional exasperated locals.

Gravel crunches beneath Montparnasse’s boots as he heads for the benches in the jardins, sunken at the foot of the basilica. 

Jehan is sitting alone, a streak of scarlet in the pre-dawn dark, looking out across the Parisian skyline. They’ve got their knees tucked up under their chin, Montparnasse’s jacket thrown on over flannel pyjamas and a ragged sweater. Aside from those modern touches they could be a caryatid carved from ancient marble, their face calm and grave.

“It’s dangerous up here in the middle of the night, you know,” Montparnasse calls out as he approaches them and Jehan blinks and seems to come awake slowly, turning to smile at him as he walks over. “All sorts of unsavoury characters hanging around.”

Jehan’s face is bare and there are faint blue shadows beneath their eyes. Montparnasse can't breathe a bit for how beautiful they are.

“Good thing you’re here then,” Jehan says. “Come, sit.”

Montparnasse sits down next to them on the bench and Jehan looks back out across the rooftops and chimney pots.

“They say this hill was Druidic holy ground once,” Jehan says after a long stretch of companionable silence. “You know the church behind us?”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. “The big white thing? I’d noticed it, yeah.”  
  
“No,” Jehan nudges him with their elbow. “The other one. The église Saint-Pierre.”  
  
“I can’t say I’ve really given it that much thought before.”  
  
Jehan hums. Their fingers are bloodless on their knees, peeking out from under their sleeves and Montparnasse shifts closer, wanting to warm them up but not sure if physical contact would be welcomed or spurned.

“Supposedly Saint Denis first built the church there in the third century, on the site of an ancient temple honouring Mars, the god of war. That’s where the name of the village comes from, the old name.”

“Montmartre?”  
  
“Mons Martis,” Jehan says dreamily. “The Mount of Mars.”  
  
“I didn’t know that.”  
  
Jehan shivers and Montparnasse takes off his scarf and carefully loops it over their shoulders. Jehan blinks at him and tucks their chin into the warm wool.

“Why do you think we’re drawn to the same holy places?” they ask. “How can somewhere have sacred significance to so many people over so many years?”  
  
“It’s a big hill,” Montparnasse shrugs. “People like to think religion raises them up. If they’re on top of the hill they’re looking down on the small folk, the same as the gods are. Like Mount Olympus.”  
  
“Higher the hill, closer to god,” Jehan smiles faintly. “Denis comes from Dionysius, you know, etymologically. But Saint Denis rejected the pagan gods in favour of the one Christian God. They beheaded him for it, and so Mons Martis became Mons Martyrum.”

“The Martyrs' Mountain,” Montparnasse says and Jehan nods.

“He’s said to have walked from here to where the Saint Denis Basilica is now, carrying his own severed head and preaching the whole time.”

Montparnasse looks back over his shoulder at the Sacré-Cœur, towards Saint-Denis.

“That’s over an hour away on foot, how did he see where he was going?”

Jehan laughs. “I don’t know, I suppose he pointed his eyes at the ground.”  
  
“Sounds like a lot of work for someone who’s just died.”  
  
Jehan hums and shifts closer to him on the bench. Montparnasse wraps an arm around their shoulders and they lean against his side.

“Why did you come here?” he asks.

“I think I wanted to feel close to the gods.”

Montparnasse rests his cheek against the top of Jehan’s head.

“Do you ever have one of those days,” they say, “where it’s like you’re trapped at the bottom of a well and there’s a thousand feet of dark, filthy water between you and the surface, the weight of it crushing down on you until you can’t move, can’t reach the sides to drag yourself up, and even if you could they’re so slick with algae you would never get traction?”

“No,” Montparnasse says, “not really.”  
  
“Oh.”

Montparnasse takes a breath and forces himself to be honest.

“When I have a bad day, it’s like everything’s too bright and too sharp. I can’t breathe properly and my skin hurts and my heart beats too fast and I feel like there’s something stood behind me, breathing down my neck.”

“That sounds horrible,” Jehan says, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“So does being stuck in a well.”

“There’s no water up here,” Jehan says quietly and Montparnasse pulls them closer into his arms.

At their feet, the city awakens. The sun rises slowly, hints of pink creeping across the horizon, and then all at once the mist lifts and the sky brightens, clear and blue.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. There you go. I'm sorry for the delay, thank you so much to everyone who sent encouraging and understanding messages last week when I was battling with this chapter! And as always, thanks to all of you for your support, for reading, for commenting, for generally being amazing. 
> 
> Translations:  
> Désolé - sorry  
> Låt den rätte komma in - Let The Right One In  
> Le beau est toujours bizarre - "The beautiful is always strange" - Charles Baudelaire  
> grand-mère - grandmother  
> les enfants - the children  
> Je suis la nuit - I am the night  
> jardins - gardens  
> église - church
> 
> Montparnasse quotes Macbeth, again. Bless these pretentious children.
> 
> Some of the formatting seems odd in this chapter and I'm not sure why, it's not like that in the text. If there are gaps in the middle of words etc I apologise, it's not me it's ao3!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter contains child abuse, mild descriptions of injuries and implied past self-harm.

Montparnasse stops off at the Corinthe on a quiet afternoon when Bizarro is working and he’s riding the high of having just pulled off a spectacular shoe heist for Laveuve.  
  
The bar isn’t officially open for the evening yet, but the door is unlocked when he tries it and Gibbi only nods hello at him when he lets himself in. She’s sitting on a table, broom leaning against the edge between her knees and phone in hand.  


“Hey. Bizarro’s on the bar if you’re looking for her.”  


The Corinthe is large but cosy, everything is aged and worn and falling apart. It gives the place a comfortable, casual air, appropriate for the clientele which consists largely of locals and students.  The Corinthe is not exactly a gay bar, or it wasn’t intended to be when it opened, but unofficially it’s known in the neighbourhood for being the most welcoming place to go and drink and meet people.  


The owner - Madame Houcheloup, who inherited the place from her late husband - had run it as a bistro for a while, before the damning reviews had lead her to close the kitchen and limit the menu to alcohol. She’s a kind, eccentric sort of woman, happy to leave most of the work to the bar staff and come around in the evenings to entertain the customers with stories about her youth that vary wildly in their levels of obscenity and validity.  


Musichetta and Bizarro rule over the Corinthe like a pair of cruel but fair monarchs. Matti and Gibbi, the other regular bar girls, have worked there for years but neither of them are particularly interested in managerial tasks. Bizarro has a knack for balancing the books and Musichetta is the exact combination of beautiful and intimidating that makes her perfect for handling customer service. Montparnasse has seen her reduce abusive customers to near tears with a word, there are rumours she once broke a man’s nose on the bar rail.

Everyone who visits the Corinthe falls at least a little bit in love with Musichetta. 

Montparnasse has also seen her three sheets to the wind singing karaoke with Bizarro, both of them belting out an incredible rendition of 4 Non Blondes, ending only when Bizarro took a shoe off to throw at someone in the audience who made the fatal mistake of heckling them.  


Montparnasse heads towards the bar in the back of the main room where Bizarro and Musichetta are setting up for the night ahead.  


“Whatever it is you want,” Musichetta says when she spots him, “it’s probably not going to happen.”  


“I haven’t even asked you yet,” Montparnasse settles on a stool at the bar and smiles winningly at them both.  


“I know the kind of favours you ask,” Musichetta points at him with the unnecessarily sharp knife she’s using to cut up limes. “And I will have no part in them.”  


Montparnasse looks to Bizarro appealingly but she shakes her head. “Don’t even try.”  


“Come on, I haven’t told you what it is yet.”  


Bizarro rolls her eyes. “Fine. Out with it.”  


“The thing is,” Montparnasse says, “Grantaire’s lost his job at the gallery, and he asked me to ask you to ask Chetta if there was any chance at all that he could pick up a few shifts here, just to make ends meet?”  


There’s a long, pointed silence. Montparnasse rocks his stool back onto one leg and balances on it casually.

“Hey, Chetta,” Bizarro says finally. “What’s our policy on hiring irresponsible borderline alcoholics to work behind the bar?”  


Musichetta raises one flawless eyebrow and spits out a rapid-fire stream of Italian.  


Bizarro turns back to Montparnasse. “She says no.”  


Montparnasse shrugs. “Well, I tried.”  


“Listen,” Bizarro says, leaning her elbows on the bar. “I need to talk to you.”  


“Ok?”  


“Not out here.” Bizarro glances around the mostly empty room. “Chetta, I’m taking five minutes.”  


“Check the lines, would you, while you’re out there?”  


“No problem.”  


Bizarro jumps over the bar, which earns her a disapproving look, and Montparnasse hops off his stool and follows her into the storeroom, where the beer lines wind along the walls alongside rickety wooden shelves boasting boxes of cheap wine.  


Montparnasse perches on a barrel of dark ale and Bizarro fiddles around with some complicated looking gauge on the wall before she joins him.  


“It’s about Lapointe,” she says, glancing over at the closed door.  


“I assumed so,” Montparnasse says. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been asking around, you know. Trying to get a feel for what’s going on. I think it’s more than just a power struggle, I think it’s a coup.”

Montparnasse snorts. “A _coup?_ Please. Lapointe’s a thug, he couldn’t plan a coup with a power point presentation titled: ‘How To Plan A Coup’ running in the background.”  


“That kind of arrogance is what got your ribs broken,” Bizarro points out.  


“They were not _broken_ , my god.”  


“I’m telling you, there’s more going on here. Sous thinks so as well, why do you think he’s been tailing Lapointe’s men?”  


“Is that what that was all about.”  


Bizarro pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “You are useless. Listen, I’m telling you. Lapointe’s up to something and underestimating him is not the way to go. He’s got sources I haven’t been able to track down.”

“Sources?” Montparnasse repeats sceptically and Bizarro punches him in the arm.  


“Ow! Ok, ok. I’m listening. Sources, sure. Have you told Babet?”  


“Of course I’ve told Babet. Glorieux’s looking into it as well, to see if any of the new people might be plants.”  


“Well then,” Montparnasse shrugs. “We just wait and see what happens next.”  


“You have the least tactical mind of anyone I’ve ever known,” Bizarro says. “It’s astounding.”  


“That’s what we have you and Gee for,” Montparnasse grins. “You do the snooping, Gee does the planning, I lure people in with my ravishing good looks and Claquesous hits them from behind.  Voilà, voilà.”  


“The fact that you’d even joke that that’s how we work is so telling. Christ.”  


Montparnasse laughs. “Biz, listen. Even if Lapointe thinks he has the faintest chance of taking out Babet with some Machiavellian scheme, who the hell is foolish enough to team up with him and take on the whole of Patron-Minette?”  


“I don’t know,” Bizarro sighs. “But there’s bound to be someone.” She pulls her phone out of her apron and checks the time. “I better get back to work.”  


“If Grantaire asks, you waited more than two seconds before laughing his request off,” Montparnasse says, standing and stretching out his shoulders.  


“You coddle that boy,” Bizarro ushers Montparnasse out of the stock room and locks the door behind her.  


“That is a lie, how dare you.”  


“Who’s that?” Matti asks, popping up from behind the bar.  


“Grantaire,” Bizarro tells her and she giggles.  


“Everyone coddles Grantaire, how can you not? He’s like a sad, drunk puppy.”  


“A sad, drunk puppy that pisses on the carpet,” Musichetta says, hands on her hips. “Why is nobody doing any work? Montparnasse, if you’re not buying a drink get the hell out of my bar.”  


Montparnasse darts in to kiss her on the cheek and waves at them all on his way out, blowing a kiss to Gibbi where she’s still pretending to sweep the floor. Bizarro throws a beer mat after him as he leaves and he dodges it expertly.  


“Goodbye ladies, have a wonderful afternoon!”

~

Jehan texts a lot. 

They frequently send long stream of consciousness messages at four in the morning when they can’t sleep and Montparnasse texts back pictures of the strange sights Paris offers when all respectable citizens are tucked up in bed.

Jehan sends texts to say good morning, snaps of what they’re having for breakfast, quotes from things they’re reading, scenes from their day. It’s nice.   


More than once they’ve both gotten too distracted talking, Jehan abandoning their studies to discuss something with Montparnasse and spiralling into an hour-long conversation that bounces from subject to subject, Montparnasse drifting off during a job when Jehan texts him silly selfies.

It’s _fun_ , talking to Jehan. Montparnasse keeps catching himself smiling like a fool at his phone, Claquesous and Gueulemer and sometimes Éponine giving him suspicious glances behind his back.

They’ve been on a few dates since the night at the Sacré-Cœur. 

They’d gone for breakfast that morning, once the sun had risen fully and their peaceful solitude was broken by the arrival of the first few visitors. Montparnasse bought Jehan coffee, nudged them into eating some of his croissant and hugged them gently when Jehan kissed him goodbye and thanked him for his company.  


They hadn’t really talked about it afterwards, but Jehan had texted to thank him again and Montparnasse found himself inviting them out to the cinema to watch an independent horror film Claquesous had been raving about for weeks. The film turned out to be absolutely awful and they'd talked the whole way through, quietly mocking the acting, the writing, the special effects, until eventually they’d been asked to leave.  


A week later Jehan had given Montparnasse a guided tour of the Musée national du Moyen Âge, one hand holding Montparnasse’s and the other gesturing wildly, their eyes bright with ghoulish delight as they described the process of preserving bits of dead saints as relics while a nauseated looking teacher ushered a class of fascinated school children away behind them.  
  
Things have been going really well. Montparnasse should’ve known it couldn’t last.

It’s a Friday and Jehan’s last class of the week finishes at lunchtime. It’s a nice day, finally, after weeks of drizzle and biting wind. The sky is blue and the buildings glow in the sunshine as Montparnasse waits for Jehan to come and meet him. 

When they arrive Jehan’s glowing too, tripping over themself to talk about the lecture they just had, sweater slipping off one shoulder under paint-spattered salopettes and hair tucked up in two messy buns. Montparnasse plucks a pencil from one of them when it starts to tilt precariously towards the ground and Jehan smiles and takes it without pausing in their explanation, waving it like a conductor to emphasise their points as they regale him with stories of the debate they’d had with a fellow student that morning. 

“But I still have the moral victory,” Jehan says, pointing emphatically with the pencil and nearly stabbing a passing pedestria. “Because he thinks voting is a waste of time.”  


Jehan stops dead in the middle of the path and whips around to stare at Montparnasse, face pale under their freckles.  


“What is it?”  


“You do vote, don’t you?”  


Montparnasse laughs. “Of course I vote. I’m not disenfranchised yet, you know.”  


“Thank god,” Jehan says. “That’s non-negotiable. We couldn’t have come back from that.”  


They stop off at a little café to buy sandwiches and takeaway coffee. The park by the university is busy but not full, it’s easy to find a quiet spot and the grass is dry enough to sit on the ground. 

Jehan is still wearing Montparnasse’s jacket, it’s wrapped around their waist today and as they plonk themself down near a patch of daisies he waits to feel annoyed but instead is just charmed when they immediately set to work picking the flowers to make a chain.  


“Eat something before you do that,” Montparnasse offers them a sandwich which Jehan rebuffs and then waves their coffee tantalisingly out of reach, which works. Jehan sets the flowers aside and near inhales their latte.  


“Did you sleep at all last night?”  


“About an hour,” Jehan says, clutching the drink with both hands. “I finished that essay.”  


“Congratulations.”  


Jehan rolls their eyes. “You were up until four, you don’t get to judge me.”  


“Yes,” Montparnasse smirks. “But _I_ slept in until eleven this morning.”  


“Ugh,” Jehan pouts. “I’m jealous.”

They eat their lunch and Jehan tells Montparnasse more about their classes. It’s actually very interesting, but Montparnasse is well aware that Jehan could read the phone book aloud and he’d probably sit with rapt attention and have to fight the urge to applaud when they finished.  


Once Jehan’s finished their sandwich, their coffee and half of Montparnasse’s as well for good measure, they turn their attention back to the daisy chain.  


“How are you planning to wear that with your hair up?”  


“I’m not,” Jehan smiles. “It’s for you.”  


There is a moment of dawning horror in which Montparnasse realises that he’s not even going to argue. One way or another he’s going to end up wearing a fucking daisy chain crown. 

He feels a twinge of belated regret for every time he ever mocked Gueulemer and Claquesous over how gone for each other they are, followed immediately by the thought that they must never, ever find out about this.  


“I’m not sure it really goes with my-” he waves a hand at himself “- _aesthetic_.”  


“Flower crowns go with everything, Parnasse. It’s a fact.”  


“Is it,” Montparnasse asks.  


“Mmhm. They are the ultimate gender neutral accessory.”   


“Why haven’t laurel wreaths made a comeback,” Montparnasse wonders out loud. “Is it because everyone associates them with getting stabbed twenty-three times on the senate floor?”  


Jehan laughs. “That might have something to do with it.”  


“I should start a trend, make the laurel crown the must-have Summer Look.”  


“You know they’d only be marketed as the masculine alternative to flowers,” Jehan says and Montparnasse wrinkles his nose.  


“You’re probably right about that. Maybe not then.”  


“Gendering _leaves_ ,” Jehan mutters, pressing too hard with their nail and splitting a daisy stem in half. “So unnecessary.”  


“People do like to gender the most ridiculous shit,” Montparnasse leans back on his elbows and tilts his head back to catch the lukewarm rays of sunshine. “Do you think all gender is performative?”  


Bizarro and Claquesous talk about this sort of thing relatively often and Montparnasse usually just listens, he can keep up with the theory for the most part but he’s never been confident enough to join in. With Jehan, though, it’s different.  


“I think it’s more complicated than that,” Jehan says slowly and Montparnasse looks over at them. “While some aspects of gender are performative I wouldn't argue that all of it is, entirely. Because if gender is _only_ something you perform, what does that say about people who don’t identify with any one gender?”  


“Like Joly?” Montparnasse asks.  


“Yes, and me. It’s like what you said about fashion being symbolic: perception has power. Performative gender relies on perception but our personal gender identities don’t lose their meaning in private.”  


“Right, and gender identity can be political too,” Montparnasse adds, thinking of Bizarro and Musichetta and Gibbi at last years Pride, marching under their Trans Rights are Human Rights banner.   


“Exactly, so there’s the public or performative, the personal, and the political. All of which inform perception.”  


“And perception is power.”  


“Sometimes, yes.”  


“But not always?”  


“It depends who is perceiving you and how.”  


Montparnasse tilts his head. “Good point.”  


Jehan finishes the daisy chain and holds it up for Montparnasse to see.  


“What do you think?”  


“Much less likely to get me assassinated, I hope.”  


Jehan leans over to place the crown carefully on Montparnasse’s head and when they’re done he loops a finger in the loose neck of their top and pulls them down into a kiss. “Thank you.”  


“It suits you,” Jehan tells him and Montparnasse grins. He shifts around so he can settle his head in Jehan’s lap and they wind their fingers into his hair where it curls around his ears.  


“It’s really terribly unfair, you know,” Montparnasse says and Jehan raises an eyebrow.  


“What’s that?”  


“Normal people don’t look attractive from this angle. I can practically see up your nose, it should not be working for me.”  


Jehan laughs. “You’re absurd.”  


Montparnasse lets his eyes drift shut and Jehan tidies a loose strand of hair back from his forehead.  


“So do you identify as agender too, like Joly?” he asks.  


Jehan hums and shifts slightly before they answer.  


“No, I’m not agender. Joly doesn’t identify with any gender at all, they are specifically Not Gendered. It’s a bit different for me. Sometimes it feels like I have all the genders, sometimes none, but rarely one on its own. Fluid, I suppose, is the closest fit. But even that doesn’t feel quite right some days. So: non-binary.”  


“Fluid,” Montparnasse muses. “Hm.”  


“And you?”  


Montparnasse blinks up at them. “What about me?”  


“Well, gender expression and gender identity are two distinct things. Performative and personal, if you like.”  


Montparnasse shrugs. “I don’t know.”  


“We don’t have to talk about it if you’re not comfortable.”  


“It’s not that,” Montparnasse says. “I just, don’t really know what I think.”  


Jehan leans down to press a brief, upside down kiss to his lips. “You don’t have to think anything, you can just be.”  


Now that he’s started, Montparnasse wants to touch Jehan _constantly_. 

It’s all-consuming, he catches himself reaching out without thinking about it, taking their hand or brushing strands of hair off their cheek or pulling them against his side. He’d worry that he’s smothering them, but every time he reaches out Jehan is already reaching back.  Jehan seems almost starved for affection and if he hadn’t seen the way Grantaire and the rest of them hang all over each other, he’d guess it’d been years since anyone had held them. Montparnasse is surprised at how much he craves the casual intimacy and affection that’s slowly building between them. It’s not something that’s ever bothered him before, he doesn’t like to be touched by people he doesn’t trust and he doesn’t trust very many people. This strange skin hunger is not at all like him, but when Jehan offers themself so easily it’s difficult to worry about it.

“Are you busy tonight?” Jehan asks.  


“No, I have the night off.” Montparnasse frowns as his phone vibrates, Azelma’s name flashing on the incoming call when he pulls it out of his pocket.  


“Well,” Jehan’s saying, “Feuilly’s working and I was thinking maybe-”

“Sorry,” Montparnasse sits up as the call cuts out and his phone immediately starts buzzing again. “I think I need to get this.”  


“Oh, of course. Go ahead.”  


Montparnasse answers the phone. “Zelma?”  


“You said I could call,” Azelma sounds shaky and wrong and Montparnasse goes cold all over. “If I needed to. I could call you.”  


“What’s happened?”  


“I don’t know. He’s really angry, I haven’t seen him this bad since before he went away.”  


Azelma sounds like she might be crying. Jehan’s watching, looking concerned.  


“He hit Gavroche,” Azelma says and Montparnasse is on his feet before he even knows he’s moving, the daisy chain sliding off and fluttering to ground unnoticed.  


“Are you at home?”  


“Yeah, I sent Gav to yours.”  


“Get out of the house.”  


“I can’t,” Azelma takes a wobbly breath. “I can’t leave, he’ll kill her.”  


Montparnasse bites back his instinctive response, which is: _so let him_.  


“I’m coming over.”  


“What about Gav?”  


“Fuck.”  


“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Just make sure he-” in the background there’s a crashing sound and Azelma gasps.  


“Azelma!”  


“I have to go, look after Gav.” 

The line goes dead.

Montparnasse hangs up and swears, dragging a hand through his hair.  


“What’s wrong?” Jehan asks.  


“That was Azelma,” Montparnasse says pointlessly.  


“Éponine’s little sister?”  


“Yeah. I have to go, I need to get back to the apartment.”  


“Ok,” Jehan’s voice is measured as they stand and scoop up their satchel. “Is it an emergency?”  


Montparnasse’s laugh jars out of him, discordant and harsh. “Yes.”  


“Right, we’ll get a taxi then.”  


“What?”  


“Come on.”  


Jehan loops an arm through his and guides Montparnasse back out of the park towards the street.  


The cab ride back to the apartment passes in a blur. Montparnasse can feel the weight of Jehan’s uneasy gaze on him, but he can’t think past his own panic. He texts Gueulemer and Claquesous but neither of them reply. 

When they arrive at the apartment, Gavroche isn’t there.  


“He’s not here,” Montparnasse looks around as if he might appear from thin air.  


“Who isn’t here?”  


“Gav. She said he was coming here.”  


“Parnasse,” Jehan’s voice is soothing, like they’re trying to gentle a cornered animal. “Why don’t we go wait inside?”  


Montparnasse finally looks over at them and feels a rush of guilt and… something else. Something that’s definitely not guilt. Jehan is calm but he can see the worry in their eyes.  


“Sorry,” he says, “shit. I’m sorry.”  


“It’s alright,” Jehan steps towards him and rests their hands on his hips. “Everything’s going to be fine. Just take a breath for me, ok?”  


Montparnasse tugs Jehan into his arms and breathes in the comforting scent of their shampoo. Jehan slides one hand up to stroke the small of his back.  


“Ok,” Montparnasse says, once he’s mostly in control of himself. “Let’s go.”  


Upstairs in the apartment, Montparnasse paces.  


Éponine’s phone is turned off. Montparnasse calls Cosette and it rings out three times.  


“Can you tell me what’s happening?” Jehan asks, curled up on Montparnasse’s chair watching him.  


Montparnasse only hesitates for a second. He trusts Jehan with this. He’s not sure when it happened, but that’s a potential panic attack to be dealt with another day.  


“Thénardier, Éponine’s father, he’s abusive. Violent, sometimes. He got out of prison recently and moved back in with them. I was waiting for something like this to happen.”  


“And her brother, Gav. He’s on his way here?”  


“Yeah, Zelma sent him away but she's still there. I can’t go get her if I don’t know where Gavroche is.”

Jehan doesn’t look surprised by anything they’ve heard. Montparnasse wonders how many of Éponine’s friends know about her parents, how many she’s told and how many have worked it out on their own.  


“Do you have Pontmercy’s number?” Montparnasse asks Jehan when Cosette’s phone goes to voicemail again. Talk about last resorts. Jehan nods, pulling their phone out of their pocket.  


Marius picks up and, miraculously, doesn’t hang up when he realises who he’s talking to.  


“Cosette’s in an exam until four,” he says, once Montparnasse has explained the bare bones of the situation. “And if Éponine’s at work, she can’t go. They’ll fire her if she takes any more time off, she’s had warnings already.”  


Montparnasse swears and presses a clenched fist to his forehead. 

The doorbell rings.  


“Hang on,” he says to Marius. 

Instead of going to the intercom, Montparnasse heads into his bedroom and peers out of the window. There’s a slight figure huddled at the front door, hood up, skateboard in hand. Gavroche.  


“Is that him?” Jehan says at his elbow and Montparnasse nods.  


“Marius? Gav’s here,” he says, heading back to buzz the door open. “I’m just letting him in now. I don’t know what to do about Zelma. If I can get through to Claquesous I’ll see if he can go get  her.”  


“Is Jehan still there?” Marius asks.  


Montparnasse looks over at where Jehan is biting their lip absently. They raise their eyebrows in silent question when his eyes meet their own.  


“Yes.”  


“Well, um. Can’t they stay with Gavroche while you go get Azelma?”  


Montparnasse frowns. “I can’t ask them to do that.”  


“Do what?” Jehan asks.  


“They’ll be fine for an hour or so,” Marius says. “Or, I can come over? I mean. If you want. It’ll take me a while to get there though.”  


Montparnasse glances between Jehan and the door. Gavroche always drags his feet up the stairs to their place, complains that there’s too many and they should move somewhere with an elevator.  
  
Jehan catches hold of his hand. “If I can help, I want to.”  
  
“Alright,” Montparnasse says, decided. “Marius, you go get Éponine from work.” Marius starts to protest but Montparnasse cuts him off. “If they fire her, they fire her. She hates that fucking job anyway and we can get by until she finds something else. She’ll be furious if she finds out we didn’t come get her right away anyway, and you know it.”  


There’s a pause, then Marius sighs. “Yeah, ok. You’re right.”  


“Good. Tell her I’ll handle it.” Montparnasse hangs up on him and turns to Jehan.  


“How are you at entertaining teenagers?” he asks, just as Gavroche knocks on the front door.  


“Um,” Jehan says, wide-eyed. “I have no idea? I’m not the kind of person people usually trust with their kids.”  


“Well, are you up for finding out?” Montparnasse asks. “I know it’s a lot. I can try Gee again if it’s too much, or Glorieux, someone, but I don’t want to leave him alone-”  


“I want to help,” Jehan says firmly. “Let me help.”  


Gavroche knocks again.

“Ok.” Montparnasse opens the door and Gavroche ducks under his arm into the apartment. He’s got his hand pressed to the lower half of his face and when he pulls it away Montparnasse has to focus hard on not slamming the front door shut.

There’s a livid bruise blossoming on Gavroche’s jaw, the skin split and still oozing blood in the centre of it.  


Montparnasse wants to break something.  


He also wants to clean Gavroche up and hug him, but right now with the way he’s holding himself Montparnasse knows that even a hint of physical contact would really not be appreciated.  


“What took you so long,” Gavroche gripes, going still when he notices Jehan. “Who’s this?”  


“This is my-” he stumbles to a halt. Fuck. What are they? He can’t say friend. Friends don’t go on dates and kiss each other with that much meaning behind it. They’ve been going on actual dates for weeks now, not counting the drunken tryst and Grantaire’s birthday, so are they datemates? Why haven’t they had this conversation yet? “This is Jehan,” he says quickly, hoping his hesitation wasn’t too obvious.  


Gavroche raises a sardonic eyebrow, a move blatantly stolen from Montparnasse.  


“Hey,” he says.  


“Hi,” Jehan gives Gavroche an awkward little wave and Montparnasse is struck with the overwhelmingly inappropriate urge to kiss them.  


“Jehan’s going to hang out with you here for a bit while I go get Azelma,” he says because now is not the time.  


“Ok,” Gavroche says like Montparnasse is being incredibly embarrassing. “Whatever, it’s fine. Stop freaking out. I’m gonna go wash my face.”  


Montparnasse wants to roll his eyes, make a stupid joke, something that would make him laugh. But Gavroche is still bleeding and he looks wan and checked out and Montparnasse is lit up inside with seething rage. So he just nods and turns to Jehan.  


“You’re sure you’re ok with this?”  


“Of course,” Jehan says, and to their credit they only look a little bit terrified. “We’ll be fine.”  


“Éponine will be here soon, I hope,” Montparnasse says as Gavroche heads for the kitchen. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour, maybe two. There’s ice in the freezer, for the bruise. Don’t try and talk to him about it unless he brings it up first. I’m sorry-”  


When Jehan leans up on their toes, catches his face in their hands and kisses him, Montparnasse feels still and steady for the first time in what feels like hours.  


“We’ll be fine,” they say again. “Go.”  


~  


The Thénardiers live around forty minutes from Montparnasse and Éponine’s apartment, something Éponine only tolerates because it means she’s close to Azelma and Gavroche.  


Montparnasse makes it over there in twenty-five.  


The Thénardiers moved from the apartment in Montfermeil to this place in the  banlieue défavorisée after Éponine left home. Neither Montparnasse or Éponine have ever broached the subject of where the money had come from, some things it’s better not to think about.

By the time he’s walking up their street the throbbing pulse of panic has sharpened, the churning anger in his gut settled, and Montparnasse slides easily into the calm, static headspace he uses when he’s working where everything is hyper-focused and clear. 

There’s a man in the street outside the house. He’s leaning on the wall opposite and listening voyeuristically to the shouting that echoes out from inside, sipping on a can of cheap beer like he’s watching sports. When he notices Montparnasse looking at him he shrugs, palms raised, as if to say: _not my problem_.  


Montparnasse sneers. It’s never anyone’s problem. Raised voices, breaking glass, screams, it’s all just part of the ambient background noise to people like this. Bruises, black eyes, shaking hands - no one would ever dare to step in. No one wants to draw attention to themselves. No one cares.

“Get out of here,” he snaps and the man shrugs again, wandering off down the road with a swaying gait.  


The Thénardier house is typical for the street but the neglect of the residents has taken its toll. Montparnasse picks his way around piles of rubbish in the small front garden - heaped stacks of newspapers crinkled and rotting from the rain, a stake with a chain and collar but no dog, an abandoned bike frame missing the wheels - and steps up to the front door.  


He knocks hard, banging on the door with the side of his fist. The shouting cuts off and after a pause, Montparnasse knocks again. If Thénardier thinks he’s the police and goes out a window, so much the better.  


Madame Thénardier cracks the door open, chain firmly on, and peers out through the gap. She blinks in surprise at the sight of him and Montparnasse drags up his most charming smile.  


“Good afternoon.”  


The door slams shut and the chain rattles briefly before it’s yanked open again and Mme. Thénardier leans forward to kiss his cheeks in a cloud of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. 

She’s perfectly fine, of course. Despite Azelma’s fears Montparnasse has never known Thénardier to take out his frustrations on his wife. Just on his children.  


“Montparnasse, dear, it’s been a while since you’ve darkened our doorstep,” she smiles with yellowed teeth and Montparnasse thinks of all the ways he’d like to see her dead while he presses a delicate kiss to the back of her liver-spotted hand.  


“I assure you, Madame, I counted every second until I saw your face again.”

Mme. Thénardier lets out a smoke roughened giggle and adjusts the collar of her dressing gown. “Oh, stop it.”  


“May I come in?”  


Mme. Thénardier glances over her shoulder. “Go on then. He’s in a bit of a mood, it’ll be nice to have some polite company.”  


Montparnasse follows her down the dark hallway. The inside is just as messy as the outside, Mme. Thénardier kicks a teetering stack of cardboard boxes aside and Montparnasse steps carefully over what looks like part of a car engine as she leads the way into the main house.  


In the next room Thénardier is on the phone, face twisted into a scowl as he snaps at whoever’s on the other line.  


“It’s not my fault if you can’t handle a bunch of jumped up street kids! We had a deal and I’ve held up my end, you have everything you need to make this work so _get it done_.”  


“Look who’s here, my love,” Mme. Thénardier announces too loudly, bustling into the room with Montparnasse at her side. 

Thénardier looks over and for a split second Montparnasse could swear he sees a flash of genuine fear in his eyes before it’s plastered over with a deeply false welcoming expression.

“Montparnasse,” Thénardier says, as much into the phone as to him. “What a surprise.”  


Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting?”  


“No, no. Not at all.” Thénardier hangs up and slips the phone into his pocket. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”  


“Actually,” Montparnasse glances over at a pile of what looks like surveillance photographs on the dining room table before Thénardier scoops them up and tidies them away in an uncharacteristically fastidious manner. “I’m here to see Azelma.”  


The Thénardiers exchange a meaningful glance.

“I’ll just go get us some drinks, shall I?” Mme. Thénardier says and hurries out of the room.  


“Azelma?” Thénardier repeats.  


“Your youngest daughter?” Montparnasse says slowly, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I know it’s hard to keep track. She’s the one who still lives with you, unfortunately.”  


Thénardier barks a nervous laugh. “You kids with your jokes.”  


Montparnasse doesn’t smile. Thénardier heads for the stairs, not once turning his back on him.  


“Azelma!” he shouts, eyes still on Montparnasse’s face, rictus smile firmly in place. “Get your lazy ass down here!”  


There’s an awkward silence when Azelma does not appear. Mme. Thénardier has not reemerged from the kitchen and Thénardier is practically twitching with the urge to flee.  


“So, how’s the lovely Madame Babet?” he asks, wincing almost immediately as the words leave his mouth.  


Montparnasse finally smiles. “You can’t ask her yourself?” Thénardier looks like he’s chewing on lemon rind. “Ah, no, of course. She doesn’t associate with abusers, does she?”  


“She’s a very unforgiving woman,” Thénardier says like he can’t help himself. “I don’t think it was necessary to blackball me in that way. No one will work with me now.” 

Montparnasse gives a consolatory hum, arms folded. 

“You could talk to her, you know,” Thénardier says, eyeing him calculatingly. “Put in a good word for me. I’m a changed man, Montparnasse. It’s amazing what a short stint in the big house will do for you.”  


“Is that so?”  


“Yeah, absolutely,” Thénardier takes a step towards him, sensing an in. 

Footsteps clatter on the stairs and his expression falters, eyes darting back and forth between Montparnasse and the doorway behind him.  


Azelma ducks into the room, school bag heavy with books on one shoulder and a duffle bag on the other leaking clothes. 

“Hey,” she sidles over to Montparnasse, not looking at her father. A nasty welt is rising on her cheekbone, swollen and sore looking.  


Thénardier flexes his fingers, the heavy gold ring he wears catching the light.  


“You’ve changed, huh?” Montparnasse asks.  


“I-”  


“Leave it, Parnasse,” Azelma shifts under the weight of the bags. “Let’s just go.”  


“You’re lucky,” Montparnasse tells Thénardier. “Your children have asked me very nicely not to kill you and I respect them enough to listen. If Claquesous were here instead of me, which he very nearly was, I don’t think you’d get off as lightly.”  


Thénardier’s hand jerks towards his chest where beneath his jacket is the shape of something that can only be a gun.  


“ _Don’t_ ,” Azelma says, pulling on Montparnasse’s coat sleeve. “Please, I want to leave.”

“Go on,” Montparnasse says, “I’ll meet you outside.” Azelma doesn’t move. “I promise, I’ll just be a minute.”  


She nods reluctantly and slips away.  


“They’re not coming back here,” Montparnasse says once the front door has slammed shut behind her. “And if you come near them or Éponine again, I will personally ensure that you regret it for the rest of your miserable lives, which will in all likelihood be blessedly short.” He looks over to where Mme. Thénardier is hovering in the kitchen doorway. “That goes for both of you.”

Outside Azelma’s sitting on the wall smoking a cigarette. Montparnasse steals it from her hand, picking up her school bag and slinging it over his shoulder.  


“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.”  


Azelma hops down and picks up her duffle, falling into step with Montparnasse as he strides away from the house.  


“What did you say to them?”  


“That you’re going to stay with me and Ponine.”  


“That’s all?” Azelma squints at him.  


“I strongly advised them to leave you all alone.”  


“Hm.”  


They get a bus back to the apartment. Azelma seems to have packed every book she owns in her bag, along with all of Gavroche’s, and it weighs an absolute ton.  


“Are you ok?” Montparnasse asks when she sits down without a word.  


“It doesn’t hurt,” she replies, staring out at cars as they pass.  


“That’s not really what I meant.”  


The bruise looks painful, no matter what she says, and Montparnasse knows that some hits hurt worse than others.  


“I didn't really believe it would be different this time,” Azelma draws a flower in the condensation on the bus window. “But I think I hoped it would be.”  


Montparnasse puts his arm around her shoulders and she slumps against his side, wiping wetness from her cheeks that he pretends not to see.  


~

When they get back up to the apartment they find Gavroche and Jehan sitting on the floor around the coffee table playing what appears to be a hand of poker.  


“Hey Zelma,” Gavroche says, looking up when they come in through the door, “c’mere, Jehan’s teaching me how to count cards.”  


He’s grinning, looking much happier than he was earlier, and there’s a novelty Star Wars bandaid stuck over the cut on his chin. Azelma dumps her bag and heads over to give him a hug. 

Montparnasse leans against the wall for a minute, finally able to breathe properly now they’re both there in front of him.  


“Are you ok?” Jehan asks, appearing at his side. Montparnasse hadn’t even noticed them getting up.  


“Thank you,” he says, pulling them into his arms.  


“Parnasse,” Éponine’s voice cuts through the brief respite, “do you want to tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?”  


“No,” Montparnasse says quietly against Jehan’s ear and he feels it when they smile. “Did you really teach Gav how to count cards?” he asks, slowly dragging himself upright but keeping Jehan close in the circle of his arms.  


“He’s really, really good at it,” Jehan says seriously.  


“So much for you being a positive influence.”  


Éponine clears her throat. “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but again I ask: what the fuck?”  


She’s still in her work uniform, hair dragged back in a messy ponytail, and her mouth is flat and strained the way it always gets when anything happens involving her parents.  Montparnasse feels briefly guilty for dragging this all out.  


“Honestly, I don’t really know. Gav and Zelma were there, not me.”  


The kids look up at the mention of their names and Montparnasse sees how much it takes Éponine not to flinch at the sight of them both, bruised and tired and terribly young.  


“We should wait until Bahorel gets here,” Cosette says, appearing from the kitchen with an ice pack and a can of Coke. “That way they only have to go through it all once.”  


She squeezes Montparnasse’s arm and smiles warmly at Jehan on the way past to give Azelma the drink and carefully press the ice pack against her cheekbone.  


“Bahorel?” Montparnasse asks Éponine.  


“Um, that was my idea?” Marius says quietly from the hallway and Montparnasse sighs.  


“Oh good, the gang’s all here.”  


Jehan pinches him hard on the hip and Montparnasse stares at them, betrayed.  


“Be nice,” Jehan mouths and he rolls his eyes.  


“Whatever. Thanks for helping out earlier, Pontmercy.”  


Marius could not have looked more shocked if Montparnasse had kissed him and declared them brothers.  


“Ah, oh. Yes. No problem? I just- I know Bahorel’s not really. Um. You know. But Bossuet is focussed on  droit constitutionnel, mainly, and when Bahorel was studying he did some  droit civil so I thought maybe-”  


“It was a great idea, Marius,” Jehan cuts him off kindly and Marius smiles gratefully at them.  


“Courfeyrac just texted,” he says, “they should be here soon.”  


“Courfeyrac?” Montparnasse groans. “Why is Courfeyrac coming?”  


“He’s volunteered with social services,” Jehan explains. “He can help.”  


“Wonderful.”  


“Come sit down,” Jehan steers Montparnasse over to where Gavroche is masterfully shuffling the deck of cards.  


They’re not kept waiting long before the door buzzes and Bahorel sweeps in, Courfeyrac at his side.  


“I just want to remind you all that I am _not a lawyer_ ,” Bahorel announces to the room as a whole, before promptly segueing into an incomprehensible stream of law jargon that basically summarised seems to mean: your dad fucked up, here’s what you should do about it.

Cosette sits Éponine down on the couch with him and Courfeyrac and they speak at length about things that Montparnasse does his best not to listen to. This kind of talk: custody laws and abuse hearings and visitation rights, it sends him spiralling back to times he’d much rather not think about. 

Marius makes tea for everyone and passes out drinks, once that’s done he hovers anxiously behind the couch until Cosette draws him over to sit at her feet, hands stroking soothingly over his shoulders.  


Éponine is distracted, despite herself. She keeps looking over at Gavroche who’s sitting on the floor with Jehan still playing cards and Azelma who is curled up in Montparnasse’s chair. Montparnasse sits next to her on the arm for a while and Azelma knots her fingers in his sweater, keeping him there.

When Jehan and Gavroche deal Azelma into their next hand of cards, Montparnasse takes the chance to escape for a minute and goes through to the kitchen to smoke a cigarette. His hands are shaking, it takes him two tries to light it.  


“You care about those kids a lot.”  


Montparnasse tries not to start too obviously in surprise. Courfeyrac’s stood in the doorway watching him with narrowed eyes.  


“Of course I do,” Montparnasse says, stripped down to honesty by the stress of the day. “They’re my family.”  


“Cosette is too, I suppose,” Courfeyrac says.  


“Yes.”  


“You’d do anything for your family.”

Montparnasse doesn’t waste his time pointing out how obvious that statement is.  


“I’d do anything for mine,” he looks over his shoulder to the other room. “Jehan is family to me. Do you understand?”  


Montparnasse blinks. “Sure.”  


Courfeyrac stares hard at him for a long moment. “If you do anything to hurt them, I will find a way to make you pay.”

He walks away and Montparnasse rolls his eyes, taking a long pull on his cigarette and making a mental note to tell Gueulemer that the Hufflepuff gave him a shovel talk.  


He pulls his phone out of his pocket, but there are still no replies from either Gueulemer or Claquesous. Montparnasse frowns and shoots off a quick text to Glorieux asking if they were working today.  


“Can I have one of those?” Gavroche asks, slipping into the room when Montparnasse is working on his second smoke.  


“Absolutely not.”  


“C’mon, I’ve had a rough day,” Gavroche wheedles, swinging himself up to sit on the countertop.  


“You sound like a middle-aged office worker.”  


Gavroche snorts.  


“I like Jehan,” he says eventually. “They’re cool.”  


“They are, aren’t they,” Montparnasse smiles.  


“They like you a lot too, for some reason,” Gavroche continues innocently, swinging his legs.  


Montparnasse fixes him with a look. “What did you do?”  


“Nothing!” he protests, affronted. “I just asked some questions.”  


Montparnasse sighs.  


“Don’t be like that, I was careful about it. I’m not _obvious_ , like _some_ people.”

“You spend too much time around Claquesous,” Montparnasse mutters.  


“I saw him and Gueulemer the other day,” Gavroche grins. “Talk about obvious.”  


Montparnasse hides a smirk and stubs out his cigarette.  


“I’m ok,” Gavroche says. “You know that right? I’m fine. Azelma’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”  


“You don’t need to reassure me, you idiot,” Montparnasse pulls Gavroche off the counter into a hug. “I think Ponine probably needs it more than I do.”  


“She’s in a Cosette and Marius sandwich right now, she’s fine too,” Gavroche says, wiggling out from under Montparnasse’s arm.  


“Gross,” Montparnasse curls his lip.  


“Yeah,” Gavroche agrees.  


“We’re heading out,” Bahorel sticks his head around the kitchen door. Montparnasse nods and follows him out to say goodbye.  


Courfeyrac doesn’t acknowledge Montparnasse again, hugging Jehan and the girls and ruffling Marius’ hair before saying goodbye to Azelma and Gavroche.  


Bahorel drags Montparnasse into a hug. “Azelma didn’t leave out any, uh, _arm-twisting_ tactics you might have used to get her out of there, did she?” he asks quietly.  


“She walked out the door of her own accord and they let her, any threats issued were after the fact and she wasn’t there to hear them.”  


Bahorel nods seriously. “Good,” he claps Montparnasse on the back and follows Courfeyrac out, waving goodbye to everyone else.

Montparnasse’s phone buzzes and he’s relieved to see it’s a text from Gueulemer.  


_sorry - emergency - every1 alive don't panic. meet 2mrw 2 talk. is zelma ok???_  


Montparnasse frowns.  


_she’s fine, she and Gav are staying at ours. what happened?_

Gueulemer doesn’t reply and after a few minutes pass Montparnasse realises he’s not going to. He texts Babet and Glorieux to let them know what happened that evening instead and puts it out of his mind. If he needed to know, they’d tell him.  


Gavroche and Azelma have talked Jehan into playing another round of poker and Montparnasse reclaims his chair now Azelma’s abandoned it to sit next to Jehan on the floor.

“I’m ordering pizza,” Cosette announces from the couch where she and Marius are attempting to absorb Éponine into one symbiotic life form. “Pepperoni?” she points at Éponine and Azelma who both nod. “Vegetarian?” she asks Jehan.  


“Yes please.”  


“And you two, margherita?” Montparnasse agrees for himself and Gavroche who is squinting at his cards with single-minded focus.  


“Ok, and vegan for us. Everyone ok with cauliflower crust?” Cosette asks.  


Montparnasse and Marius make identical disgusted noises. Jehan and Éponine share an amused look.  


“Normal pizza,” Gavroche whines. “We deserve _normal_ pizza.”  


“Yeah, come on Cosette,” Azelma widens her eyes and pouts. “Please?”  


“I’d really rather have the normal sort,” Marius adds.  


Cosette sighs. “Fine. Cauliflower crust for one, I suppose. Unless, Jehan do you want to share?”  


“Sure,” Jehan says, “but you know I’m allergic to peppers, right?”  


“Oh, I forgot. Ok, individuals it is,” she pulls out her phone to call in the order.  


“Peppers ?” Montparnasse asks Jehan and they nod.  


“Yep. What about you, any allergies?”  


“Latex.”  


Gavroche snorts and Azelma flicks him in the back of the head.  


“It’s a perfectly common allergy,” Montparnasse says, the spiel is familiar.  


It’s a bit of a pain actually, although Babet and Bizarro are great at making sure all the first aid kits they have are stocked with latex-free gloves for cleaning up any scrapes he gets into, and between Brujon and Glorieux, Montparnasse has heard all the jokes.  


“At least I’m not allergic to peanuts,” Montparnasse points out and Gavroche pouts.  


“Sweet, sweet death nuts,” he laments. “It would totally be worth suffocating to eat real pad thai one last time.”  


“No it would not,” Éponine interjects. “And speaking of, Azelma did you bring-”  


“They’re in the bag,” Azelma drags the duffle bag over to her side and rifles through the mess of her and Gavroche’s clothes to pull out a handful of epi-pens. “I got our passports and birth certificates and everything too, although I think they’re both fake so it probably doesn’t help that much.” She passes a handful of slightly crumpled papers to Montparnasse. He flicks through them and studies the passport with Azelma’s picture in critically.  


“You’re so organised,” Marius sounds impressed and slightly wistful. “When I left home I didn’t even think to bring a spare change of clothes.”  


“You were kicked out, babe. It’s a bit different,” Éponine wraps her arms around his shoulders.

Montparnasse frowns. That’s a story he’s not heard before. 

“These aren’t great,” he tells Azelma, instead of asking about it. “I can get you some better ones.”  


“Can you make me eighteen?” Azelma asks with a cheeky smile.  


“I’m getting you a birth certificate, not a fake ID.”  


“Call,” Jehan says and Gavroche grins triumphantly as he throws down his hand, winning the pot which appears to be mostly an assortment of cheap bonbons and sticks of gum.

Jehan congratulates him and unfolds themself from the floor, coming over to settle in Montparnasse’s lap, legs thrown sideways over his knees and one arm wrapped around his waist. Montparnasse pulls them closer without really thinking about it, and it’s only when he looks back at the room that he realises Cosette, Éponine and Marius are watching them.  


“So,” Éponine says. “Do you two have something you’d like to tell us?”  


Gavroche and Azelma perk up where they’re sprawled on the floor sharing the sweets, sensing gossip like a pair of bloodhounds.  


“No,” Jehan answers before Montparnasse can. “I don’t think so.”  


Éponine raises an eyebrow and waves at the two of them. “No?”  


“Like how you and Cosette told everyone you were throwing a party as a thinly veiled excuse to get together, you mean?” Jehan continues.  


Marius coughs, cheeks bright pink, and Montparnasse gets the distinct impression that he had not been let in on that plan.  


“That’s not the same,” Éponine argues.  


“Isn’t it?”  


“Why don’t we watch a film,” Cosette says, in the particular tone of voice she has that makes everyone do exactly what she wants.  


There’s a short debate on what they’re going to watch before they settle on Brave - because it’s Azelma’s favourite, not that she’d admit it, and because no one wants to watch anything serious.  


“You ok?” Montparnasse asks quietly as Merida follows the wisps to the witches cottage, and Jehan leans their head on his shoulder.  


“I’m fine.”  


Montparnasse laces his fingers through Jehan’s and presses their hand gently.  


“I’m just,” Jehan huffs a tiny sigh. “I’m tired of people acting like I can’t make my own choices. I love my friends, but my life is my own.”  


“Fuck ‘em,” Montparnasse jokes, pressing a kiss to their temple. “You are free to make your own mistakes.”  


“You’re not a mistake,” Jehan says fiercely, twisting in his lap to look at him. “You’re not.”  


Montparnasse can’t help but kiss them then.  


“Excuse me, there are minors present,” Gavroche points out loudly and Jehan pulls away, the blush Montparnasse loves so much creeping across the bridge of their nose.

The doorbell rings and Cosette gets up to answer it, waving away Éponine’s wallet when she grabs it off the coffee table and offers it to her. 

Azelma’s gazing at Montparnasse and Jehan with starry eyes and Éponine looks contemplative. Marius, on the other hand, is staring pointedly at the ceiling and he jumps up to help Cosette when she comes back with her arms full of pizza boxes.  


The food is quickly passed around and Montparnasse fights a smile when Jehan frankly refuses to vacate his lap, carefully balancing a shared plate of pizza on the arm of the chair instead. 

By the time the food is finished and the film is over Azelma is mostly asleep, leaning up against Montparnasse’s knees, and Gavroche doesn’t look far behind her.  


“We’re going to go,” Cosette says quietly, unwinding herself and Marius from Éponine. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning.”  


She and Marius say their goodbyes and Jehan stirs from their half-doze.  


“I should go too,” they say, looking at the clock on the wall. “It’s late.”  


“Stay,” Montparnasse lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the inside of their wrist, grounding himself in the feel of their pulse against his lips. “Just to sleep. There are children everywhere, after all.” Gavroche makes a groggy disgruntled sound from the floor. “Teenagers then, forgive me o mature one.” 

Jehan smiles fondly at Gavroche who makes a very rude gesture at them both.  


“Stay,” Montparnasse says again. “If you want. I’d like you to.”  


“Yes,” Jehan leans up to kiss him briefly. “I’ll stay.”  


Éponine wakes Azelma so she can share her bed and Jehan gets to their feet so Montparnasse can fetch spare pillows and blankets for Gavroche, who immediately throws himself onto the couch, burrowing into the pile of bedding.  


“G’night,” he mumbles, “use a condom and keep the noise down.”  


Montparnasse hits him lightly over the head with a cushion.  


Jehan goes into the bathroom first and Montparnasse sits on the edge of his bed, head spinning. This was not at all how he thought he’d end the day, but he’s certainly not complaining.  


Jehan comes in and they switch, Montparnasse heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he gets back Jehan’s sitting cross-legged on the bed combing their hair. They’re wearing Montparnasse’s cut up t-shirt. The sides dip even lower on them, when they lift their arms to brush through the length of their hair Montparnasse gets a flash of skin from ribcage down to their hip. He stands in the doorway and watches.

“Is this ok?” Jehan asks when they notice him there.  


“You are beautiful,” the words slip out before he realises it, but Jehan blushes and smiles, pleased. “You can steal any of my clothes you like.”  


“That’s a dangerous promise to make,” they say, clever fingers braiding their hair back away from their face for sleep.  


Montparnasse strips out of his jeans and socks. He’s not wearing anything under his sweater but he pulls that off as well. He can feel Jehan’s eyes on his back as he throws his clothes aside.  


“Come here,” they say, just as he’s about to reach for a shirt to sleep in. 

They’re leaning against the pillows, the sight so similar and so removed from the first time they were both in this room together.  


Montparnasse crawls up the bed to them and they pull him close until they’re pressed together, Montparnasse’s arms around Jehan’s waist, face against their throat.  


“Am I too heavy?” Montparnasse asks and Jehan shakes their head.  


“No. I like you here.” Jehan runs their hands across his shoulders up into his hair, nails scraping carefully over his scalp until he shivers.  


“Are you alright?” they ask and Montparnasse pushes up onto his hands to kiss them. Jehan tastes faintly minty and they kiss back slowly.  


“I’m perfect,” Montparnasse mumbles against their mouth.  


Jehan smiles, their lips curving under his own. “Well, I know _that_.”  


“You’re perfect,” Montparnasse amends, kissing them again.  


“Nobody’s perfect,” Jehan pulls gently on Montparnasse’s hair and he makes a low, pleased noise.

“You can do that harder,” he murmurs, voice slurred with sleepy pleasure.  


“Oh?” they do and Montparnasse shudders and goes boneless against them, the last hints of tension in his shoulders softening. “That’s good to know.”  


Montparnasse rests his head on their shoulder and slips his hands under the gaps in his t-shirt, wrapping around Jehan’s ribs so he can feel them rise and fall as they breathe. He wonders if anything in his life has ever felt as good as this, just the feel of Jehan’s skin against his, their hands in his hair.  


“Like a big cat,” Jehan sounds as though they’re mostly talking to themself. “I didn’t expect you to be so tactile.” 

Montparnasse goes to pull away but Jehan catches him before he can. 

“No, don’t. I like it.” Montparnasse opens his eyes a sliver, not certain when he closed them, to see that blush creeping down Jehan’s throat. “I’ve never wanted to touch anyone like I want to touch you.”

Montparnasse scrapes his teeth carefully over the blood-flushed skin of their neck and when Jehan arches into it he flips them over so they’re above him, sitting astride his waist. Jehan laughs breathlessly in surprise, bracing their hands on his chest and leaning down to kiss him.  


There’s a scattering of raised silvery scars winding like delicate ladders across the inside of Jehan’s thighs. When he strokes his thumb over them Jehan shivers and moans a vulnerable sound into Montparnasse’s mouth.  


Outside in the hallway the floor creaks and the bathroom light clicks on, the fan buzzing. Jehan goes still above him, breathing heavily.  


“Shit,” they roll off of him onto their side and Montparnasse follows, folding himself around them. “Gavroche and Azelma are sleeping,” Jehan whispers. “We should probably be sleeping too.”  


“Mm,” Montparnasse mouths against the curve of their jaw and Jehan sighs, tugging sharply on his hair. “That’s counter-intuitive, you know,” he mumbles.  


Jehan smiles. “We should go to bed.”  


“We are in bed.”  


Jehan gives him a flat unimpressed look and Montparnasse grins, pulling himself away from them and standing to turn out the light. 

Jehan slips under the covers and pauses in the middle of the mattress. “Which side do you sleep on?”  


“Whichever,” Montparnasse says, “I don’t mind. I can sleep anywhere.”  


“Really?" Jehan shifts towards the side closest to the wall. “You’re lucky. I’m not a good sleeper. I should probably warn you, actually.”  


“Do you snore?” Montparnasse asks, sliding back into the bed and laying on his side to look at them.  


“No, I don’t think so. No one’s ever told me I do,” Jehan replies, “but I’m a restless sleeper. I might wake you up.”  


Montparnasse laughs softly, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been told I could sleep through the apocalypse.”

“That’s lucky then.”  


They’re face to face on their sides, an arms width of space between them. Jehan looks at him like they’re waiting for something.  


“You’re too far away,” Montparnasse says, holding a hand out to them, and Jehan smiles and wriggles closer. Montparnasse turns onto his back and Jehan wraps one arm across his waist, rests their cheek against his shoulder and twines one leg through his.  


“You’re clingy,” Montparnasse says, not bothering to hide how much he likes it.  


“Mm,” Jehan shifts impossibly closer. “You’re warm.” 

Montparnasse presses a kiss to their forehead, curls his arm around them. “Goodnight.”  


Jehan hums, already mostly asleep, and Montparnasse lets the comforting weight of them against his side draw him down into darkness.

  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am so grateful and so overwhelmed by the amazing response this fic is getting, thank you all so much for your comments and messages they mean the world to me.
> 
> Please be sure to go check out the art that some very kind souls have made for this fic!
> 
> by [meidama](http://meidiama.tumblr.com/tagged/one-thousand-nights)
> 
> and [tissueboxesforseals](http://tissueboxesforseals.tumblr.com/tagged/jean-prouvaire)
> 
> Translations:  
> Voilà, voilà - there you go  
> salopette - overalls/dungarees  
> banlieue défavorisée - disadvantaged suburb  
> droit constitutionnel - constitutional law  
> droit civil - civil law  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: graphic descriptions of violence, torture and injuries, references to child abuse. Please mind the tags!

While Montparnasse can, and has, slept through all manner of things - including, but not limited to: screaming matches, gunfire and, just once, a minor explosion - the feeling of eyes on him will always drag him back to wakefulness.  
  
It’s quiet, the early morning sun streaming in through the sheer curtains, and Montparnasse lays still while he figures out what drew him out of dreams. It comes back to him in waves, Azelma, Gavroche, Thénardier. Jehan.  
  
Jehan, the warmth at his side, the dip in his mattress, the presence in his bed.  
  
Jehan watching him sleep.  
  
“What are you doing?” he murmurs and cracks one eye open.  
  
Jehan smiles shyly at him where they’re lying propped up on their elbow next to him. “You’re cute when you sleep.”  
  
“I’m cute all the time,” Montparnasse points out and scrubs one hand over his eyes, hoping his hair hasn’t worked itself into too much of a mess and that he doesn’t have pillow creases imprinted on his cheeks.  
  
Jehan looks soft and comfortable against his sheets, their hair escaping messily from their braid and Montparnasse’s t-shirt slipping down to show the peak of one collarbone. The sun streams in through the window behind them, backlighting them in a hazy glow, and Montparnasse just stares for a moment.  
  
“True,” Jehan says, voice warm with amusement. “You were frowning. What were you dreaming about?”  
  
Montparnasse thinks he can remember a flash of something but when he tries to follow it, like a word on the tip of his tongue, it drifts away.  
  
“I don’t remember. Did you dream?”  
  
“Yes.”

Montparnasse stretches and Jehan’s eyes drift to his chest where the covers have been pushed down.  
  
“What did you dream about?” Montparnasse asks.  
  
“I dreamed that the river overflowed its banks and the water coursed through the streets,” Jehan says, their eyes lingering on Montparnasse’s stomach. “It filled up the shops and the galleries, the cafés and the churches. The water rose and the city sank until all that was left was rooftops and spires.”

“Hm,” Montparnasse studies Jehan’s face, the faint shadows beneath their eyes. “How long were you watching me sleep before I woke up?”

“Not long,” Jehan blushes pulling the covers up over their face. “Sorry, I didn’t think it would be that creepy.”  
  
Montparnasse grins and pulls the duvet away, leaning down to kiss their forehead. “It’s not creepy, it’s sweet.”  
  
“It was nice,” they say, one hand tentatively coming to rest on Montparnasse’s shoulder. “Waking up with you. Is that kind of pathetic? It’s probably not a big deal to you.”  
  
They haven’t talked about past relationships yet, Jehan hasn’t offered anything and Montparnasse hasn’t wanted to bring it up. Jehan hadn’t seemed bothered at all by the fact that he has history with Grantaire but he’s not sure how they’ll feel hearing story after story about his soulless one night stands.  
  
“I’ve not done this part very often,” he says honestly. Grantaire had very rarely spent the night, usually only if they’d both been drinking or worse. “Just sleeping next to someone.”  
  
“Oh,” Jehan’s fingers trace the thick scar that winds along Montparnasse’s shoulder and onto the side of his neck. “I thought you’d had more- I don’t know. I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry.”  
  
Montparnasse catches their hand and presses Jehan’s fingertips to his lips. “You can ask me if you want. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”  
  
Jehan’s eyes are dark and their lips part when Montparnasse nips lightly at the pad of their middle finger.  
  
“I-” they swallow, throat clicking. “I don’t know what to ask.”  
  
“You’ve dated people before?”  
  
Montparnasse is relatively sure they have, from what Grantaire had said and the way they kissed him that first night if nothing else.  
  
Jehan looks away, curling into themself slightly and Montparnasse lets go of their hand.  
  
“Yes,” they say. “It’s never really worked out very well before though.”  
  
“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” Montparnasse offers. He doesn’t want to ruin this, this quiet peaceful morning.  
  
Jehan sighs, copper lashes brushing their cheekbones. “It just never went anywhere. I was never what they wanted, in the end.”  
  
Montparnasse can’t imagine anyone not wanting Jehan. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, it’s like… I think they had this preconceived idea of who I was and when I didn’t live up to it, suddenly I wasn’t good enough.” Jehan frowns, eyes fixed somewhere around Montparnasse’s clavicle. “It was all fine at first but as soon as they realised I was a real person and just as messed up and irritating as everyone else in the world they lost interest. I don’t know, they never wanted to be with _me_ I suppose, more the idea of me.”  
  
“Irritating?” Montparnasse can’t help but get stuck on that one point, “How are you irritating?”  
  
“I’m either too quiet or I never stop talking,” Jehan says like they’re repeating something they’ve been told before. “I care too much about things that no one else is interested in, I fall for people too quickly and I try too hard, I get sad for no reason and fuck everything up-”  
  
“Jehan-”  
  
“Somehow I always manage to be too much and not enough at the same time.” Jehan smiles a small, tremulous smile. “Sorry. This is why everyone’s been giving you so much grief, I’m terrible at relationships.”  
  
Jehan’s words make something sharp twist in Montparnasse’s chest. “I think that’s at least ninety-nine percent because of who I am, not because of you.”  
  
“I don’t even believe all of that most of the time, you know?” Jehan says. “I never asked to be anyone’s manic pixie dream whatever, I’m just a person. But it’s hard to remember that when it feels like the person that I am isn’t anything anyone wants.”  
  
“I want you,” Montparnasse says and kisses them, morning breath be damned. “I want the real you.”  
  
“I want you too,” Jehan kisses back hard, winding their fingers into the mess of Montparnasse’s hair.  
  
People have said those words to Montparnasse before. Hundreds of times, probably.  
  
_I want you:_ to do this for me, be this for me, let me use the parts of you I’m interested in and keep everything else to yourself.  
  
No one’s ever said it like they were offering him a gift before.

“I didn’t mean to bring the mood down,” Jehan jokes, lips brushing Montparnasse’s pulse point.

“Kiss me again,” Montparnasse says, winding Jehan’s braid around his fingers, “and I’ll let it slide.”

Jehan pulls him in until Montparnasse is leaning over them, hair falling in his face as they wrap their hands around the back of his neck.

“I was thinking, yesterday,” Jehan can’t quite meet his eyes, “when you introduced me to Gavroche. You didn’t know what to say.”  
  
“We haven’t talked about it,” Montparnasse says, heart rate picking up despite himself.  
  
Jehan blushes. “We could talk about it now?”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
Jehan blushes harder but they make themself look up at Montparnasse when they speak. “I really love spending time with you. And I really like you. And this might be too soon, it probably is, but- if you want - I’d like you to be my boyfriend.”  
  
They wince a bit at that and Montparnasse has to kiss them. He’s not the biggest fan of that title but from Jehan’s lips it bothers him less.  
  
“I’d like that too,” Montparnasse says and Jehan smiles. “And you,” he says, and there isn’t a casual gender-neutral equivalent that he likes enough, really, but Jehan’s already been brave this morning and Montparnasse finds he doesn’t care to temper himself. “You’ll be mine?”  
  
“Yes,” Jehan’s eyes darken and they lift their mouth to his, drawing him down into a kiss.  
  
Montparnasse has imagined this a lot since that first night. Jehan in his bed, under his hands, the sound of them, the _feel_ of them.  
  
Spending time with Jehan is the sweetest kind of tease, all those casual touches and long looks, both of them feeling their way around this delicate, indescribable thing they’ve found in each other.  
  
But this, this is _more_. How many mornings has he pictured them here with him between these sheets? How many times has he brought himself off thinking of what he’d do to them if they were really there?  
  
The reality of it is stunning, Jehan’s skin is hot beneath his hands, mouth wet and eyes dark, kissing him filthily and pressing against him like they might fly apart at the seams without the weight of him there against them. Montparnasse drags his lips lightly over Jehan’s collarbone and they moan, fingers tight in his hair, hips rocking up against his own.  
  
“All those people were fucking fools,” Montparnasse mouths the words against Jehan’s throat, presses them back against the pillows. “You’re incredible, Jehan. You’re everything.”  
  
“Parnasse,” Jehan gasps around his name.  
  
It would be so easy to urge his t-shirt up over Jehan’s head, to reach down and press his palm against wherethey want him most, to _take_. Jehan gasps and sighs sounds of want in his ears and Montparnasse is only human.  
  
But he doesn’t want it to be like this, with the kids in the next room and both of them muzzy and stale from sleep.  
  
Jehan deserves better.  
  
Montparnasse makes himself gentle their kisses, slows down until they’re almost just sharing breaths.  
  
Jehan makes a questioning noise and chases his lips when he pulls away and Montparnasse is _so close_ to giving in and kissing them again when someone knocks on the bedroom door.  


“If you want breakfast you better hurry up before Gav eats it all,” Azelma calls from the hallway.  
  
“Is this what it’s like growing up with siblings?” Jehan asks, burying their face in Montparnasse’s neck to hide their burning cheeks. “Because if so I’m almost glad I never had any.”  
  
Montparnasse throws on a t-shirt and some loose cotton pyjama bottoms of Éponine’s that got mixed up in his laundry. They’re purple and they have the Sailor Moon cats on them and Jehan laughs when they see them, which is why Montparnasse chose them instead of his own black satin ones.  
  
Jehan pulls their jumper on over Montparnasse’s sleep shirt and smiles innocently when he raises an eyebrow at them.  
  
“Notorious clothes thief Jehan Prouvaire strikes again,” he says and they blow him a kiss.  
  
In the other room Gavroche is sitting on the couch eating an enormous bowl cereal and watching cartoons on Montparnasse’s laptop, which is interesting because Montparnasse has never told him his password.  
  
Azelma is sitting beside him with a huge textbook and a notebook, ostensibly doing homework but really watching Miraculous Ladybug along with her brother.  
  
Éponine is sitting on the floor with her back to the couch eating a plate of fruit with one of Azelma’s legs slung over her shoulder and Gavroche’s foot shoved up against the back of her neck. She looks up when Jehan and Montparnasse come in and stares at them both.  
  
“Morning,” Jehan smiles at her and she nods.  
  
“Is there cereal left or did Gav eat it all?” Montparnasse asks and Gavroche crunches obnoxiously in response.  
  
“There’s a bit left and there’s bread from yesterday,” Azelma says, not looking away from the screen.  
  
“I’m going to get something to drink, do you want anything?” Jehan asks Montparnasse and squeezes his fingers when he shakes his head.  
  
Montparnasse heads for his chair, deliberately ignoring Éponine’s heavy gaze.

“Are we still not talking about this?” she asks, looking between Montparnasse and Jehan.

Éponine has many virtues but even Montparnasse couldn’t argue that patience is one of them. Nor, for that matter, is the ability to just let things go. She is tenacious to her very bones.  
  
Montparnasse watches Jehan firm their shoulders as they walk away towards the kitchen. Between what they’d said last night and their confessions this morning he’s feeling more than a little protective.  
  
Montparnasse is slowly beginning to understand that Jehan’s friends might genuinely be opposed to their dating for more reasons than just his own terrible reputation.  
  
The things Jehan had recited - callous words they must have repeated to themself more than once to be able to spit them out as rote like that - things so casually cruel it’s easy to take them into yourself and begin to think of them as fact instead of just someone else's narrow-minded opinion.  
  
Montparnasse doesn’t care if people know they’re dating. He doesn’t care what Jehan’s friends say about it, if they have a problem with it. But he cares about how their disapproval weighs on Jehan. Not enough to stay away, that’s already a lost cause. But enough to consider their perspective.  
  
To people like Courfeyrac, he thinks, maybe it’s not only about Montparnasse being a bad influence, a bad choice, a bad person, but about Jehan _falling_ for that bad influence, making that bad choice, picking that bad person.  
  
Montparnasse wonders how many times Jehan’s blamed themself for the things people have said to them, the poor treatment they’ve received. How many times their genuinely well-meaning friends have inadvertently reinforced that message by making them doubt their own judgement, warning them away from someone they’re interested in.  
  
Montparnasse could be a bad choice. He’s not arguing that he isn’t a bad influence. The jury’s out on whether he’s a bad person. But as far as possible he’s determined not to be another black mark on Jehan’s romantic record. And step one, as far as he’s concerned, is not betraying their trust.  
  
“I’m not asking for details, you know. Just the vaguest hint of what the fuck is going on with you two.”  
  
Jehan comes back with a glass of juice and lingers in the doorway, watching them.  
  
“Ok, Éponine. You caught me,” Montparnasse leans towards her conspiratorially and swipes a piece of apple from her plate. “I’m running an elaborate con on Jehan. By inviting them to sleepover and taking them on dates I intend to lull them into a false sense of security, whereupon I shall steal all of their jewels and valuables, fake my death and flee to the Riviera.”  
  
Over Éponine’s shoulder Jehan smiles at him and then fakes a gasp.  
  
“You cad,” they press the back of one hand to their forehead and step around the couch. “I am undone. What did I do to deserve such villainous treachery?”

“Oh my god,” Gavroche says with horrified awe, a spoon of cereal forgotten halfway to his mouth. “They’re worse than you and Cosette and Marius combined.”

Azelma giggles.  
  
Jehan smiles at her and moves to sit on Montparnasse’s lap, stealing the rest of Éponine’s apple on the way past.

"Fine, whatever. Have it your way,” Éponine flings her hands up in disgust. “I don’t even want to know.”  
  
The front door buzzes and Azelma jumps up to answer it.  
  
“Check who it is first!” Éponine calls after her and Gavroche heads to the window to peer down at the street.  
  
“It’s Cosette,” he says, coming back to reclaim his seat and his breakfast.  
  
Cosette brings flowers and a bag full of toiletries for Gavroche and Azelma. She doesn’t bat a perfectly lined eyelid when she spots Jehan curled catlike on Montparnasse’s knee, the exact position she left them both in the previous night.  
  
“Good morning you two,” she smiles and goes to kiss Éponine hello.  
  
“Cosette’s my favourite,” Jehan whispers in his ear and Montparnasse smiles.  
  
“I thought I was your favourite?”  
  
“I detract points for dreadful flirting.” Jehan bites gently at his earlobe and Montparnasse shivers, hands flexing on their waist.

“What are you doing today?”

“I need to go home soon actually.” Jehan sighs and slumps heavily against him, body language belying their words.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” Jehan slides the very tips of their fingers under the waist of Montparnasse’s pyjama trousers. “I-” they hesitate, glancing up at Montparnasse and then away, their face turning resolute. “I didn’t bring my meds with me, I didn’t think I’d be staying away from home. I’ll be ok taking them a bit late but I shouldn’t skip them completely.”  
  
Jehan chews their lower lip anxiously and Montparnasse presses his nose against their cheek, brushes his lips against their jaw.  
  
“Ok,” he says, “do you want breakfast before you go?”  
  
Jehan swallows and turns into him, wraps their arms around his neck.  
  
“No,” they say quietly. “Thank you, I’ll get something at home.”  
  
Montparnasse shuts his eyes and basks in the feeling of Jehan wrapped around him. When he opens them again, Éponine’s watching them with an unreadable look on her face.  
  
“I should go.” Jehan stirs and stretches, hauling themself to their feet.  
  
Montparnasse follows them up and Jehan keeps hold of his hand as they collect their bag and Montparnasse’s jacket before heading to the front door.  
  
“I’ll text you later,” they say and Montparnasse nods.  
  
Jehan doesn’t move to leave and after a second Montparnasse crowds them against the wall and kisses them. Jehan pulls him in, wraps their arms around his waist and Montparnasse cradles their face tenderly, one thumb brushing over their cheekbone. They stay close even when the kiss has ended, Jehan presses their face against Montparnasse’s and sighs.  
  
“I really do have to go,” they say eventually and Montparnasse reluctantly steps back.  
  
“Text me when you get home?”  
  
Jehan nods, eyes sparkling and kiss swollen lips curling into a smile. Montparnasse watches them leave, doesn’t close the front door behind them until the last glimpse of red hair has vanished down the stairs.  
  
“You two are _so cute_ ,” Azelma says when he turns around, too close and grinning like a demon.  
  
“Gross,” Gavroche announces from the couch where he’s working on his third bowl of cereal.  
  
“You are pretty cute,” Cosette smiles.  
  
Montparnasse looks over at Éponine who rolls her eyes. “Sure, yes. You’re very cute.”  


“You’re damn right,” he says to himself, heading back to his bedroom.  


When Montparnasse turns his phone on, sitting on his unmade bed and resisting the urge to go back to sleep wrapped up in sheets that still smell like Jehan, he has a text from Claquesous.  
  
_L’Esplanade-du-Sud's ASAP. Bring coffee._  
  
There are safe houses all over the city and out in the banlieues, set up by Glorieux and Babet over the years, and each member of Patron-Minette has a property assigned to their name. Montparnasse’s is, rather un-creatively, in Montparnasse. It’s a tiny studio near the train station and is stocked almost entirely with medical supplies and cash.  
  
L’Esplanade-du-Sud’s is one of the older safe houses. It’s not actually a house at all but an old warehouse building out in La Courneuve. Patron-Minette uses it mainly when they need somewhere isolated, away from the more built up suburban areas. It comes in handy when they have things to do that they don’t want to be overheard doing.  
  
Montparnasse sighs and slumps back on the bed. Looks like he’s got a busy day ahead of him after all.  
  
His phone vibrates again, a message from Gueulemer this time.  
  
_can u bring lunch 2? ty!_  
  
Montparnasse swears and heads for the shower.

~

L’Esplanade-du-Sud’s safe house sits on the edge of an industrial estate near the main road leading out of La Courneuve.  
  
The industrial estate is run down and largely derelict, the few remaining warehouses are old and crumbling. Most legitimate companies picked up and moved their businesses elsewhere years ago, to newer buildings in better locations. There’s a faded sign on the chain-link fence near the main gate, warning about non-existent guard dogs. Around the back there’s another with a picture of a kitten on it - Carmagnolet’s idea of a joke.  
  
Montparnasse ducks through a hole in the fence out of the sight of the dated CCTV cameras and heads towards the safe house. It’s been a long time since he last visited this site. As Patron-Minette has expanded and gained influence they’ve been more comfortable working in the city, and usually there are other people to take care of anything that requires slogging out to the worst fringes of the banlieues to lurk around in freezing warehouses.  


Montparnasse heads around the building to the door and keys the passcode into the lock, balancing three cups of coffee and a bag of sandwiches in his other hand.  
  
The warehouse is not particularly big inside, the door Montparnasse enters through leading into the loading bay area that connects to the main space. The building is gloomy and, as Laveuve had said the first time she saw it, “serial kill-y”.  
  
Montparnasse kind of agrees with her, if he’s being totally honest. He’s not certain what the building used to be used for before Babet got her hands on it, the floor is concrete with drains built in so it can be easily hosed down and Babet hadn’t bothered to have the place cleaned up at all, so there’s a strange variety of abandoned machinery in the corners and rusty chains hanging from the ceiling.  
  
“This kind of thing is good for intimidation,” she’d pointed out when they first looked around the place and Claquesous had nodded.  
  
“Aesthetic,” he said dryly, snapping a picture of Montparnasse turning his nose up at what was either a dead rat or a clump of human hair.  
  
Now the main room of the warehouse is mostly empty, on one side a few ancient wooden packing crates are shoved up against the wall, crumbling shelves casting long shadows on the other under the flickering floodlighting. There’s a small office room in one corner with a fancy electronic lock that matches the one on the outside of the building, Laveuve’s contribution.

In the centre of the floor, bolted to the concrete so it can’t tip over, there is a single chair set beside a small card table. In the chair is a man, slumped over, his limbs securely bound to the arms and legs of the seat. 

Montparnasse makes his way towards the chair, boot heels clicking on the filthy concrete. The man stirs, looking towards the noise. He’s a sorry sight, face crusted with blood and swelling around ugly contusions, a strip of tape slapped carelessly across his mouth. 

When he spots Montparnasse he starts upright, muffled shouts leaking out from behind the gag, wrists twisting under his restraints.

Montparnasse watches him struggle for a minute, then raises an eyebrow. “Where is everyone?”  
  
The man makes a confused groaning sound, eyes wide and pained.  
  
“I don’t know why I’m asking you,” Montparnasse sighs, sipping his coffee.  
  
The man’s face crumples, clearly realising Montparnasse is not there to rescue him.  
  
“Did you bring food?” Gueulemer calls from the doorway of the office and Montparnasse waves the carrier bag at him.  
  
“More importantly, did you bring coffee?” Claquesous ducks under his arm and heads over to Montparnasse who passes him one of the drinks.  
  
“How long have you been here?”  
  
Claquesous drains his lukewarm takeaway latte in one go and eyes Gueulemer’s greedily.  
  
“Since yesterday afternoon,” he says, frowning enviously when Gueulemer claims his coffee.  
  
The man in the chair is sobbing and Gueulemer kicks his ankle none-too-gently.  
  
“Shut up, man.”  
  
Montparnasse sets the bag of food down on the table next to a blood-spattered stainless steel kidney dish which contains, on closer inspection, several human teeth. A couple of molars, one with a fake gold filling, and an eye tooth glint up at him, a few strands of stringy pink flesh still attached.  
  
Montparnasse wrinkles his nose and glances at the man in the chair, who is still whimpering but much more quietly.  
  
“Babet was here?” he asks, throwing Claquesous a falafel wrap.  
  
Gueulemer nods. “She came by this morning.”  
  
“Who the fuck is this then?”  
  
“He’s one of Lapointe’s cronies,” Claquesous says with a mouthful of hummus.  


“This was your emergency yesterday.”  
  
“Yeah,” Gueulemer says apologetically, “we didn’t mean to leave you hanging. We’ve been keeping an eye on all those guys and this one literally ran into us outside Glorieux’s apartment building.”  
  
The man makes a choked gurgling sound. He’s a real mess, one eye swollen tightly shut, nose broken and bloody.  
  
“He tell you what he was doing there?” Montparnasse asks as Gueulemer makes short work of his own sandwich.  
  
“Lapointe’s been watching us,” Claquesous answers. “I knew that already but they didn’t think we were watching them back. You both thought it was about the drugs, making money on the side without Babet’s approval, but it’s more than that.”  
  
Montparnasse groans. “Bizarro was right.”  
  
“Bizarro was right,” Claquesous nods. “It’s a coup. Or at least, Lapointe intends it to be.”  
  
“He wants to take Babet’s place?” Montparnasse asks, a note of amused incredulity creeping into his voice. It’s just… a ridiculous concept. No shit slinging upstart could dream of running things the way Babet does.  
  
“He wants to take her place, her business, her territories, and any of her people who might be swayed away from her.”  
  
Montparnasse laughs. No one would want to betray Babet. No one would _dare_.  
  
“It’s not that funny,” Claquesous says, “he had names. People they’re working on.”  
  
“What the fuck?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Gueulemer says scornfully, “he gave them all up. Everyone they’ve been bribing or threatening. Everyone they’re working with. We got names, places, dates, everything. Three little teeth and he sang like a canary.”  
  
The man jerks back in his chair when Gueulemer speaks directly to him, one good eye fixed on his hands.  
  
“Couldn’t wait to sell out your buddies, could you?” Gueulemer has blood on his knuckles and when he smiles it’s not very friendly.  
  
Montparnasse and Claquesous exchange a pointed look.  
  
Gueulemer has strong feelings about loyalty.  
  
It’s something they’d learned a long time ago now, back when Claquesous was living with Babet and Montparnasse was half living on the streets with Éponine and they were all working very slowly towards becoming friends. Claquesous had finally stopped bolting from the room like a scalded cat any time Gueulemer came around and the three of them had formed a tentative sort of alliance.  
  
Being the youngest of Babet’s gang they already shared some common ground and they gravitated together out of instinct, sitting apart from the older members when they got together for meetings or, more rarely, for social events. Glorieux and Magnon sat with them sometimes, but they rarely sought out the company of the others. This was before Bizarro joined them, before Laveuve and Carmagnolet and Homère, when the shadow of Finistere and his ilk still hung heavy over Patron-Minette.  
  
That evening they were watching a film in Babet’s apartment, Gueulemer and Montparnasse on the couch, Claquesous perched on an armchair ready to vanish back to his room at any second.  
  
“Why do you work for her?” he’d asked out of the blue, and Gueulemer nearly dropped his drink when he realised Claquesous was speaking to him.  
  
Montparnasse had gotten used to the way Claquesous swung from silent and subdued to interrogative and fierce in turns. He was, after all, used to wanting to have all the information but knowing better than to ask questions himself.  
  
Both of them were still figuring out how to go about getting to know new people and where Montparnasse tended towards charm and open-ended questions, Claquesous preferred a more straightforward approach when he chose to speak at all.

“Who, Babet?” Gueulemer asked, earning a ‘no shit’ look from Claquesous.

Montparnasse watched them both quietly, eager to see how this would play out. It would be the first conversation Claquesous had initiated between them. Without Montparnasse there as a buffer, Gueulemer had confided, Claquesous never spoke directly to him.  
  
Claquesous knew Montparnasse’s story, or most of it at least. Some he must have heard from Babet because there were things Montparnasse would mention in passing that he knows he’d never explained fully and Claquesous would just nod.  
  
Neither Montparnasse or Gueulemer knew anything about Claquesous’ history. Neither of them wanted to be the one to ask. Montparnasse got the impression sometimes that even Babet was in the dark about a lot of it.  
  
Gueulemer looked uncertainly at Claquesous and then down at his lap. “She helped me out once, got me out of some trouble.”

He fell quiet after that and Montparnasse thought that was all he would say on the subject. Claquesous shifted in his seat uncomfortably, clearly thinking similarly.

“I used to do jobs with my brother and our cousins,” Gueulemer said after a long pause. “Mostly low-key stuff, errands. But my brother, I didn’t know at the time, but he got in deep with some people. Weapons traffickers.” Gueulemer turned his glass slowly in his hands, brow furrowed. “It was heavy shit. Lots of deaths, high profile revenge spree killings going on. They attracted too much attention and eventually some of them got caught. Started giving people up, naming names, you know? For shorter sentences. They picked up one of my cousins. Then, not long after, they came after my brother. He was so angry,” Gueulemer laughed bitterly. “He said he’d been betrayed. By _family_ , no less.”  
  
Claquesous and Montparnasse didn’t say anything, both too wrapped up in Gueulemer’s words. Montparnasse had never asked him about his past before, it hadn’t occurred to him that there might be a story there.  
  
“He went into hiding, cut contact with all of us. I thought I’d never see him again. But then, one day, he got a message to me, asked me to meet him at one of our old contact’s addresses with a bunch of his shit from a dropbox. I was fifteen and stupid and I trusted him, so I went.”  
  
Gueulemer shrugged, setting the empty glass down on the table with a heavy click.  
  
“It was a set up, of course. A sting. He’d got himself picked up months ago, set me up to take the fall for him by showing up red-handed with all his guns. Blamed me and our cousins for everything.”  
  
Montparnasse thought about how he’d feel if Éponine betrayed him like that and had to swallow against the acid that rose in his throat.  
  
“Babet knew the guys involved, distantly. She heard what happened to me, and I still don’t know why, but she got me out. Took me in. Offered me a job.” He looked up at Claquesous. “She’s a good person and I trust her. That’s why I work for her.”  
  
Claquesous hadn’t said anything, just nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the film, but things had been different between them after that. Easier.  
  
“What happened with the kids?” Claquesous asks now, bumping against Gueulemer’s side deliberately as he comes to rifle through the bag for more snacks.  
  
Gueulemer rests a hand on Claquesous’s shoulder and Montparnasse blinks. The casual touching has definitely ramped up since Claquesous came back, in public for the two of them that’s practically PDA.  
  
“The usual shit,” Montparnasse answers. “Thénardier.”  
  
“ Putain d’enculé,” Gueulemer mutters. “You should’ve let us deal with him as soon as he got out. Or, hell, while he was still in there. It would’ve been easy.”  
  
“We can just as easily take care of it now,” Claquesous adds, his eyes cold.  
  
Montparnasse hadn’t been exaggerating when he told Thénardier that if Claquesous had been the one to go collect Azelma, he probably wouldn’t still be breathing.  
  
Most of Patron-Minette have met Azelma and Gavroche at one time or another. Éponine has always been wary of Babet and her associates, although she gets on well enough with Gueulemer and Claquesous, but the younger Thénardier siblings grew up around them all and everyone has a soft spot for them.  
  
No one had been happy when Babet agreed to honour Montparnasse’s agreement to leave Thénardier alive for their sake. He’s absolutely certain that Babet was the one to orchestrate his stint in prison.  
  
“We’ll see,” Montparnasse says. “They’re staying with me and Ponine for now, she reckons she can get temporary custody awarded and then work towards adoption now that he’s pulled this shit. They’ve gone to report it all this afternoon, and since Thénardier’s broken his parole if he has any sense at all he’ll be laying low. He shouldn’t give us any trouble.”  
  
“I still think we should handle it ourselves,” Claquesous leans into Gueulemer’s side. “He can’t fight a custody agreement if he’s dead. We’ll do his bitch wife too, then Ép’s the only living relative. Problem solved.”  
  
“Let's deal with this Lapointe shit first, then we can worry about the Thénardiers,” Gueulemer says. “I agree with you,” he adds when Claquesous glares up at him, “but Montparnasse is right, there’s not much he can do right now and this is the bigger threat.”  
  
Claquesous huffs but doesn’t argue.

The man in the chair is talking again, or trying to. He stares hard at Montparnasse, grunting garbled nonsense. 

Claquesous sighs and steps forward, ripping the tape off with no attempt at gentleness. The man coughs wetly, a mouthful of dark blood spraying across his knees and onto the floor.  
  
Montparnasse takes a pointed step back, lip curled in distaste.  
  
“What the fuck do you want?” Claquesous asks.  
  
“You-” the man’s voice is scratchy and hoarse, from screaming Montparnasse assumes. Having your face beaten in and your teeth yanked out without anaesthetic isn’t anyone’s idea of a fun time. “You’re Montparnasse?” the guy manages to slur, pink spittle oozing over his raw lips.  
  
“I am.”  
  
“Lapointe,” he says, drooling blood, “Lapointe wants you personally.”  
  
Montparnasse frowns. “Why?”  
  
“If I tell you, will you let me go?”  
  
The three of them share a deeply amused look.  
  
“Sure,” Claquesous says, “we’ll let you go.”  
  
“So, what did I do?” Montparnasse asks.  
  
“You killed Meunier.”  
  
“I’ve killed a lot of people, my guy. I need more details than that.”  
  
Gueulemer coughs to cover his laughter.  
  
“He went to meet you,” the man says, wheezing around the words. “At the office building with two others.”  
  
“The assholes with the baseball bats?” Montparnasse presses one hand to his ribs where there’s still the occasional twinge if he smokes too many cigarettes or the weather is particularly cold.  
  
“Typical,” Gueulemer says. “I was there too, but do I get name-dropped? No. Parnasse gets all the credit, as usual.”  
  
“I can’t help it if I’m prettier than you, Gee,” Montparnasse smirks. “People remember my face, it’s a curse.”  
  
“Yeah, you must really hate it,” Claquesous says. “I’m sure you just long for my level of anonymity.”  
  
The man in the chair stares up at them, pained confusion writ in the set of his bruised jaw.  


“Meunier was Lapointe’s brother in law,” he says.  
  
“Oh, someone fucked up,” Claquesous smirks at Montparnasse.  
  
“Excuse you, as Gee _literally_ just pointed out, he was there too. Maybe he killed what’s-his-name.”  
  
“Nah man, this one’s all yours. You can have it.”  
  
“Great,” Montparnasse sighs, pulling his cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “So Lapointe’s pissy because we wouldn’t lay down and die like good boys. What else do we know?”  
  
“Glorieux and Babet are handling the list of names personally,” Gueulemer says, picking flaking blood from his nail beds. “She’s not happy.”  
  
Montparnasse nods. Glorieux handles dissent with ruthless ferocity and Babet’s unique talent for extracting the truth from people makes them an unstoppable team at times like this.

“We know where Lapointe is working from, we know how many people he’s got and what their next moves are going to be,” Claquesous adds, like he’s debating a point.

Gueulemer sighs. “We don't know for sure how many people he’s got and we don’t know where he got his information from.”  
  
“What information?” Montparnasse asks around his cigarette, zippo in hand.  
  
“He had people watching Glorieux’s apartment. He had people following us.”  
  
“I knew that already,” Claquesous interrupts.  
  
“He knows our names, he knows the names of other people in Patron-Minette. People he’s never had contact with. People he shouldn’t know exist.”  
  
“So, someone talked,” Montparnasse eyes their hostage speculatively.  
  
Gueulemer shakes his head. “I don’t like it. There’s something we’re missing.”  
  
“I don’t know,” the man hurries to say when they turn to look at him. “I told you everything, I dunno who else was in on it.”  
  
Montparnasse lights his cigarette and exhales slowly. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes, yes,” the words are garbled with desperation, “you know everything I know, I swear!”  
  
“You didn’t forget anything? Some little detail that slipped your mind?” Montparnasse flicks the lid of his lighter open and closed carelessly, the metallic clunk and the scratch of the flint loud in the empty room when he strikes it, lighting the flame. “Shock does strange things to the brain. We’d understand if you remembered something now that you couldn’t think of earlier.”  
  
“No, please. There’s nothing else.”  
  
“Alright then.” Montparnasse looks at Claquesous and Gueulemer, “Who’s going to deal with this?”  
  
“Flip for it?” Claquesous offers.  
  
“No thank you, this is a nice shirt and he’s-” Montparnasse gestures towards the mess of blood, spit and, judging by the faint scent of ammonia in the air, piss. “I meant which one of you two.”  
  
“Flemmard,” Gueulemer mutters.  
  
“Wait,” the man says, catching on. “Wait, no. You said you’d let me go!”

“Yeah, we lied,” Montparnasse shrugs. “You think we’d stand here talking in front of you if we were going to let you walk out of here?”

“Please, I won’t tell anyone, I won’t! You have my word, _please_.”  
  
“You told us everything you know about your friends,” Gueulemer points out, arms folded and looming over him. “Your word isn’t shit to us.”  
  
The man starts whimpering and moaning again, pleading for mercy.  
  
“So dramatic,” Claquesous smiles. “I’ll take care of him.”  
  
Montparnasse moves out of the splash zone and, after nudging it with one food to check its stability, perches on the edge of one of the old crates lining the walls of the warehouse.  
  
“So what are we doing about all this stuff?” he asks Gueulemer who is watching Claquesous fondly.  
  
“We’re not _doing_ anything,” Gueulemer frowns at him. “We are waiting to hear back from Babet about what she and Glorieux have found out.”  
  
Montparnasse hums and stubs his cigarette out on the edge of the crate.  
  
“You think it’s wise to let this slide? Just sit around waiting for Lapointe to notice we’re onto him?”  
  
There’s a choked off scream and the sobbing stops.  
  
“Lapointe’s an idiot,” Gueulemer says. “There’s no hurry.”  
  
“Right, he’s an idiot, so what’s the harm in checking it out ourselves?”  
  
“Last time we made a rash decision like that he tried to take us out.”  
  
“Mm, true,” Montparnasse hums. “He tried to kill us before making a move on Babet. That’s pretty smart of him, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
Gueulemer gives him a dark look like he knows exactly what Montparnasse is getting at.  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“So maybe he’s more of a threat than you think and maybe we should do something about it?”  
  
“But if he’s more of a threat than we think, then that’s all the more reason to wait until we have all the information.”  
  
Claquesous comes over, wiping his hands on a rag. “What are we arguing about now?”  
  
“Do we wait here, twiddling our thumbs and doing nothing, which could give Lapointe time to figure out something’s wrong, or do we use what we know and strike first.”  
  
“He means,” Gueulemer counters, “do we rush naïvely into what could easily be another setup, or do we follow the instructions we’ve been given directly from Babet and wait until we know more about the situation before we act.”  
  
“Both,” Claquesous says. “Or neither, whatever you like.”  
  
Montparnasse waits for him to elaborate. This is what Claquesous is best at, treading the line between Gueulemer’s caution and his own rashness.  
  
“We’re not doing any good hanging around here doing nothing. Babet’s got people following up on Lapointe’s other friends but I know where he’ll be tonight. We’re not going to charge in there and get ourselves killed,” Claquesous says when Gueulemer starts to speak, “but we can easily go check things out, see what the mood is like. These guys are total amateurs, it’ll be obvious enough if they’ve realised something’s wrong.”

“Sounds good to me,” Montparnasse says. He’s itching to do something.

Gueulemer sighs. “I want to state, for the record, that I think this is a terrible plan.”  
  
“Acknowledged,” Claquesous says. “Now come give me a hand, this fucker is even heavier as a corpse.”

~

A few hours and one corpse disposal later, the three of them find themselves back on a familiar rooftop.  
  
“He’s based out of a bar?” Gueulemer asks, looking down on the dive with judgemental eyes.  
  
“Everyone starts somewhere,” Claquesous replies. “I’m pretty sure it belongs to his sister.”  
  
“Right, the sister whose husband Montparnasse killed.”  
  
Montparnasse doesn’t respond to that. He’s sitting against a chimney stack, sunglasses on, soaking up the last of the spring evening sunshine.  
  
The weather is slowly getting warmer and the days longer, he finds he’s looking forward to the summer. Claquesous and Gueulemer talk quietly and Montparnasse daydreams about Jehan wearing short cotton dresses, new freckles blossoming across their cheeks, hair warm from the sun.  
  
“Are you actually asleep right now?” Gueulemer nudges Montparnasse’s ankle with his toes.  
  
“I could be, if you two would stop jabbering on for five seconds.”  
  
“Late night?” Claquesous asks slyly and Montparnasse lowers his sunglasses to give him an unimpressed look.  
  
“Your interrogation techniques are rusty.”  
  
“You could just tell us,” Gueulemer points out, “then we’d stop digging.”  
  
Montparnasse huffs and pushes his glasses back up his nose. He could tell them. There’s not technically anything stopping him. Éponine and Cosette and the kids know. Glorieux knows, even if he doesn’t know Jehan’s name yet he’ll work it out on his own soon, it’s what he does after all. Jehan’s friends know. Feuilly knows.  
  
Montparnasse watches Gueulemer and Claquesous from behind his dark lenses and tries to imagine introducing Jehan to them, Jehan sitting next to him in Bizarro and Gueulemer’s apartment as they all hang out together, Jehan and their friends in the Corinthe sharing a table with Montparnasse and his own.  
  
Well, maybe not that last one.  
  
But the rest… it’s not impossible to picture. Which is a surprise.  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
Claquesous and Gueulemer snap to attention when he speaks and Montparnasse smirks at them.  
  
“Seriously?” Gueulemer asks, “Now you’re just going to tell us?”  
  
“Well, you know,” Montparnasse stretches lazily. “There’s been a lot of cryptic relationship shit going on lately. People keeping secrets, people in denial, that sort of thing. Might be good to shed some light on it all.”  
  
“Denial,” Gueulemer repeats quietly.  
  
“Secrets,” Claquesous glares.  
  
Montparnasse shrugs casually. “Yeah, Éponine and Cosette, Grantaire and Enjolras. Other people.”  
  
“What are you implying?” Claquesous asks.  
  
“Did you hear,” Montparnasse leans his elbows on his knees and affects a scandalised tone, “Bizarro went on a _date?”_  
  
“She said it wasn’t a date,” Gueulemer says.  
  
“People say all sorts of things,” Montparnasse leans back against the chimney. “ _‘It wasn’t a date’_ , _‘I’ll confess my love later’_ , _‘we’re just good friends’_.”  
  
“You’re an expert now, are you?” Claquesous’s voice drips murder from every word.  
  
“I’m just saying. I’m in a relationship, Éponine’s in love and not miserable about it, Bizarro went on a date… it’s a brave new world, my friends.”  
  
“So it’s an actual relationship then?” Gueulemer asks and Montparnasse grins.  
  
“It is an actual relationship, yes.”  
  
Claquesous holds out a hand. “Pay up.”  
  
“Bordel de merde,” Gueulemer fishes through his pockets and hands over a fist full of notes.  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Montparnasse whips off his sunglasses to glare at them both. “You bet on me?”  
  
“I bet _against_ you,” Gueulemer corrects him. “And then you go and break the habit of a lifetime and cost me fifty euros.”  
  
“Never make any bets with me,” Claquesous shakes his head, counting the notes cheerfully. “You should know better by now.”  
  
“It should have been an easy win,” Gueulemer pouts.  
  
“Fucking cheek,” Montparnasse huffs, looking back at the street behind them.  
  
The bar has been quiet all afternoon, no sign at all that Lapointe knows his scheming’s been discovered. Lapointe himself is present for once and Montparnasse had been summarily unimpressed when Claquesous had pointed him out.  
  
White, slightly balding and looking older than his thirty-six years, Montparnasse marvelled that someone so fucking average could have the audacity to think they could take on Patron-Minette and win.  
  
In the street below someone hurries on foot towards the bar, looking nervously over their shoulder.  
  
“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Montparnasse spits, on his feet in an instant.  
  
“What?” Claquesous and Gueulemer turn to see what he’s looking at.  
  
_“Thénardier.”_  
  
It’s unmistakably him. He knocks on the locked bar door and it opens a crack, Thénardier leans forward and says something, his face serious, and it opens all the way, admitting him entrance.  
  
Gueulemer growls, extremely pissed off, “I didn’t think it could possibly be him, I didn’t think anyone would be that stupid.”  
  
“Thénardier is more than stupid enough to do this,” Claquesous laughs, fists clenched.  
  
Montparnasse isn’t listening. He is incandescent with rage. ‘Jumped up street kids’ Thénardier had said, Azelma’s cheek this morning turned dark and painful looking, that fucking signet ring that split the skin of Gavroche’s face.  
  
Montparnasse should have cut him down where he stood.  
  
“He tried to have us killed.”  
  
“Lapointe-”  
  
Montparnasse shakes his head. “Lapointe is just the tool he’s using. I heard him on the phone when I went to get Zelma yesterday,” and that was only a day ago but it feels like weeks. “He was talking to someone. Said something about a deal, that he’d played his part. He planned this.”  
  
“Babet put him away,” Gueulemer says slowly, “everyone knows it. This is revenge.”  
  
“He knows,” Claquesous says suddenly. “He knows we know, he’s telling Lapointe right now.”  
  
“Fuck,” Montparnasse turns away from the edge of the roof, heading for the ladder that descends down the side of the building.  
  
“Where are you going?” Gueulemer catches hold of his shoulder.  
  
“I’m going down there to fucking kill him, where do you think I’m going?”  
  
“You can’t just bust in there-”  
  
“No,” Montparnasse shakes himself free and stands his ground. “No. This is not up for debate, we are not going to sit down and discuss this. Thénardier is scum and he has gotten away with shitting on everything around him for too long. He fucking sold us out, he put a hit on us, he’s a threat to Patron-Minette and he _beats his fucking children_. Enough. I’m done. He’s going to die.”  
  
“Parnasse,” Gueulemer spreads his hands in appeal, “we’re not prepared for this. Lapointe has five men in there with him, not counting Thénardier. We don't know if they’re armed, we don’t know the layout of the building. I don’t have guns with me, do you?”  
  
“I do,” Claquesous says but Gueulemer ignores him, Claquesous is always armed.  
  
“If we wait they’ll call more of his men over,” Montparnasse argues. “Every minute we don’t act, the more of them Lapointe has time to warn. At the moment the only people who know are in that building and we have a chance to stop this shit before it goes any further. There’s only seven of them, we’ve faced worse odds. If we take them out now that’s the head of the snake dealt with. Then it’s just clean up.”  
  
“And if they’re all armed?”  
  
Claquesous laughs. “Thénardier sent them after you and they brought _baseball bats_. There’s no way he didn’t warn Lapointe about exactly what you’re capable of. If you were going to try and kill any one of us, would you show up without a gun?”  
  
“No,” Gueulemer agrees and Montparnasse can see he’s wavering. “No fucking way, not if I had the option of using one.”  
  
“Thénardier probably has his, but we can assume the others don’t. And Parnasse is right, we’re losing the upper hand the longer we wait.”  
  
“We should at least let Glorieux know,” Gueulemer sighs and Montparnasse knows they’ve won.  
  
“You do that,” he says, “Claquesous, tell me about the bar. What are our options?”  
  
The building has two entrances, the front door and one at the back for deliveries. It’s small inside, Claquesous says. Smaller than the Corinthe. The bar is one level, the upstairs is an apartment where Lapointe’s sister lives.  
  
“She’s not here,” Claquesous tells them. “Staying with her late husband’s family, as far as I could find out. So the upstairs is empty.”  
  
“We’d be better keeping everyone down in the bar, if possible,” Gueulemer says. “Three of us, seven of them, it shouldn’t be too hard.”  
  
“If we can split them up it’ll be easier still,” Claquesous agrees. “There’s no cellar, they take deliveries straight into the storeroom in the back. If I can draw some of them back there then you two can come in the front and deal with whoever’s left.”  
  
“What about Thénardier?” Gueulemer asks, “You want to do this personally?”  
  
Montparnasse rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “I don’t give a shit, I just want him dead.”  
  
It’s quiet in the street when they descend, the sun is setting but the Saturday evening rush hasn’t picked up yet. Montparnasse and Gueulemer approach the bar from the side. There’s no one watching the front windows and Montparnasse can see Lapointe and the others inside, sitting on stools at the bar.

“Amateurs,” he snarls under his breath.  
  
Thénardier looks edgy and anxious. When a crash echoes from the back of the building, loud enough that Montparnasse can hear it from outside, he jumps, hand flying into his coat.  
  
Lapointe gets to his feet and says something to one of the guys sitting next to him who grudgingly abandons his half-drunk beer and slopes off towards the back storeroom, where Claquesous is waiting for him.  
  
Montparnasse ducks out of sight as Lapointe turns towards the front window. He waits, counting the beats of his heart.  
  
All is quiet.  
  
Montparnasse gives it two minutes, long enough for Lapointe to start wondering where his man is, and nods at Gueulemer.  
  
Gueulemer moves to the door of the bar and rattles the handle aggressively, drawing the attention of everyone inside. When it doesn’t open he knocks sloppily, calling out like he’s drunk.  
  
“Hey, what gives man? Open up! It’s Saturday night, I want a drink!” He keeps his head ducked low, turned slightly away so they won’t see his face, and he slurs his words when he speaks.  
  
Thénardier looks even more nervous, glancing back towards the back of the building where the other guy has yet to reappear. He leans over and says something to the man behind the bar who rolls his eyes and heads for the storeroom.  
  
“We’re closed,” Lapointe shouts, storming over to the front door.  
  
“What?” Gueulemer shouts, banging loudly on the door. “Let me in!”  
  
“I said we’re closed!” Lapointe unlocks the door and Gueulemer shoves it hard, knocking him away and pulling out Claquesous’s gun.  
  
“What the f-”  
  
Lapointe goes down in a spray of blood and brain matter. Thénardier and the other three goons stare.  
  
“Good evening,” Montparnasse greets them, following Gueulemer into the bar and locking the door behind him.  
  
Thénardier turns to bolt, spots Claquesous appearing from the storeroom and throws himself behind the bar instead.  
  
Lapointe’s men are frozen with indecision. Gueulemer shrugs and levels the gun at them and they leap into action, two of them darting forward and to the side, the other throwing himself at Claquesous.  
  
Montparnasse doesn’t waste his time watching, all of his attention is fixed on Thénardier’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.  
  
Thénardier’s got his gun clutched in both hands awkwardly, like he barely knows how to use it. He’s leaning against the shelves and Montparnasse waits until he scrambles up onto his knees, bringing the gun up over the top of the bar.  
  
Montparnasse catches hold of Thénardier’s wrists and slams them hard against the edge of the bar top. Thénardier shouts in pain and Montparnasse snatches the gun when he drops it, throwing it across the room to Claquesous who catches it without even looking.  
  
“You piece of shit,” Montparnasse grins viciously down at Thénardier, “I fucking warned you.”  
  
“I didn't do anything!” Thénardier yelps, but not even he believes his own bullshit because he’s tripping over himself to get away, heading for the door that leads upstairs to the apartment.  
  
Montparnasse hops over the bar and follows him.  
  
There’s a door that opens onto a staircase, Montparnasse watches Thénardier flee artlessly, not bothering to hide which direction he’s going in when he reaches the top.  
  
“There’s nowhere to go,” Montparnasse calls as he ascends the stairs. The bar is at the end of a row, unless Thénardier throws himself out of a window he’s not getting away.  
  
“This is all a big misunderstanding,” Thénardier calls and Montparnasse follows the sound of his voice down a grubby hallway. “I was warning Lapointe to give himself up!”  
  
“Sure you were,” Montparnasse snorts, pulling his knife out of his coat and twirling it casually between his fingers. “And Azelma walked into a door, and Gav busted his face up falling off his skateboard, and you never tried to pimp Éponine to your nasty friends or let your wife beat Cosette with a belt so brutally she still has the scars. You’re just a man born into unfortunate circumstances who’s trying his best, right?”  
  
A shadow moves in the doorway to the small dingy kitchenette and Montparnasse darts out of the way as Thénardier throws himself out at him with a carving knife clutched in his fist.  
  
“You pushed me to this,” Thénardier shouts, eyes white rimmed with panic and anger as he swings sloppily at Montparnasse with the blade. “You and that cunt Babet!”  
  
“I’d really recommend not talking about her like that,” Montparnasse backs Thénardier down the corridor. “I’m going to kill you either way, but you can make it quicker if you’re polite.”  
  
“She ruined my life!” Thénardier snaps. “I could’ve been a great ally to Patron-Minette but she threw me aside like _nothing_.”  
  
“You are nothing, Thénardier,” Montparnasse smiles and lunges, knocking the knife out of Thénardier’s hand and pinning him against the wall with his own blade pressed to his carotid artery.

“She had me arrested,” Thénardier rasps, beads of sweat prickling his forehead. “She set me up to take the fall for that job!”

“You’re a criminal,” Montparnasse points out. “It’s a risk we all take.”

“You’re no better than I am, you know,” Thénardier says and Montparnasse laughs, pressing the knife in harder until blood bubbles around the point. 

“I really, really am.”  
  
“Give it time,” Thénardier says, swallowing hard. “You’ll end up just like me, see if you don’t.”  
  
“That’s not going to happen for several reasons,” Montparnasse says. “Most importantly because I am _far_ better looking than you.”  
  
Thénardier sneers. His eyes flicker away to something over Montparnasse’s shoulder and Montparnasse ducks just in time to avoid the baseball bat that smacks into the doorframe, splintering wood and chipping paint.  
  
Montparnasse twists around and comes face to face with a man he doesn’t recognise. This one wasn’t downstairs with the others, he must have been up here in the apartment the whole time.  
  
The man swings again and Montparnasse is too slow to avoid it, the bat connects with his shoulder and he swears, dropping his knife and collapsing against the opposite wall.  
  
Thénardier throws himself to the floor and snatches up the knife, scuttling away on hands and knees.  
  
“Oh no you don’t,” Montparnasse says through gritted teeth.  
  
It’s cramped in the hallway and when the man lifts the bat to swing at him again Montparnasse dodges and hits him hard in the face, grabs hold of his head when he staggers back and smacks it against the wall.  
  
The guy collapses, dazed, and Montparnasse takes off after Thénardier who has taken refuge in one of the bedrooms.  
  
He throws himself at Montparnasse when he stumbles through the door, dizzy with the pain in his shoulder, and they crash to the floor in a mess of fists and cursing.  
  
Montparnasse slams his forehead against Thénardier’s and his head lolls back against the dirty carpet. The knife skitters across the floor to rest against the sideboard and Montparnasse pushes himself up onto his knees, wrapping his hands around Thénardier’s throat.  
  
“Hey!” the shout comes from behind him and Montparnasse groans and rolls away as the other man charges in through the bedroom door.  
  
Behind him, Thénardier crawls towards the window but Montparnasse doesn’t have the time to stop him, too busy tackling the guy who has reclaimed his bat and is stalking forward determinedly, despite listing alarmingly to the side.  
  
Thénardier shoves the window open and slithers out of it. Montparnasse hopes he lands on his fucking head. Defenestration is too good for him.  
  
The guy flails as Montparnasse tries to pin his arm to the floor, getting his weight under him and throwing Montparnasse aside. He grabs the bat as he rolls and yanks it out of the man’s grasp.  


Montparnasse claws himself upright, pushing off the edge of the bed, as the man struggles to his knees.

“What is it with you shitheads and _bats_?” Montparnasse swings, putting the weight of his entire body behind it, and the bat connects with a sickening crack.

The man drops to the floor, twitching and gagging. Montparnasse stands over him and watches dispassionately.

He walks slowly over to the window and peers out. There’s no sign of Thénardier but there’s a noticeable smear of blood on the canopy that covers the smoking area outside the front of the bar and it’s hanging loose from its frame on one side. 

“Montparnasse?” Claquesous’s voice echoes through the apartment.

“I’m in here.”  
  
You good?” Claquesous asks, walking through the doorway with his gun in one hand and Thénardier’s in the other.  
  
“Thénardier got away,” Montparnasse tells him, riding out the rush of disappointment and fury that surges up at the thought. “Went out the window.”  
  
Claquesous smiles coldly, “We’ll get him. He can’t hide from me.” He always did prefer the long game.  
  
“Gee ok?”  
  
“Yeah, we took care of everyone else. Glorieux’s on his way with Brujon and Barrecarrosse. They were closest.”  
  
Montparnasse throws the bat down. The man on the floor has stopped moving, a puddle of viscous red spreading across the carpet.  
  
Montparnasse frowns. Blood doesn’t ever bother him, it hasn’t for a long time, but he feels woozy. Lightheaded and nauseous.

“ _Shit_ ,” Claquesous says suddenly, “is that yours?”  
  
“What?” Montparnasse looks down to where he’s pointing.  
  
His black shirt is stained darker with something wet, the expensive material clinging to his ribs. When Montparnasse touches it his hand comes away scarlet.  
  
“That fucker,” he says, looking around at where his knife sits against the wall where it had fallen. “He fucking stabbed me with my own knife. What the fuck.”  
  
“Parnasse?” Claquesous takes a step towards him, something that looks a lot like panic in his eyes.  
  
“I’m fine,” Montparnasse waves him away, or tries to. When he moves his arm it _pulls_ and a sudden flash of agony shoots up his side, choking him. He stumbles.  
  
“Fuck,” Claquesous says, catching his elbow on the opposite arm before he can fall and shouting for Gueulemer.  
  
“I’m fine, I’m good,” Montparnasse mumbles, hand pressed over the slick fabric of his shirt.  
  
The room spins.

Claquesous is talking but he can’t really make out any individual words, then Gueulemer’s there and he’s catching hold of the hem of Montparnasse’s shirt to pull it up and Montparnasse wants to say _no, wait_ , but he can’t, the words won’t come, and then everything is red and bright and painful and Montparnasse slips into the dark.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting, I love you guys ❤︎
> 
> Remember to check out the art that some wonderful people have made for this fic!
> 
> by [meidama](http://meidiama.tumblr.com/tagged/one-thousand-nights)
> 
> and [tissueboxesforseals](http://tissueboxesforseals.tumblr.com/tagged/jean-prouvaire)
> 
> Translations:  
> Putain d’enculé - fucking cunt, essentially. v rude. tut tut Gee.  
> Flemmard - lazyass/slacker


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: emetophobia, needles, blood/gore, descriptions of injuries.

“I can’t believe you fainted.”

If Claquesous wasn’t currently putting pressure on Montparnasse’s still bleeding stab wound and also helping him stand upright, Montparnasse would smack him.

“I did not faint, you fucking asshole,” he says, not for the first time. “I just, temporarily lost consciousness. Shock and blood loss will do that to a person.”  
  
Claquesous adjusts his arm around Montparnasse’s waist, pressing down hard against his ribs. “Whatever makes you feel better.”  
  
Montparnasse glares at him as best he can from his uncomfortable position wedged between Claquesous’s side and the storeroom wall as they wait for Gueulemer to drive Barrecarrosse’s car around to the back of the bar. He can’t bring himself to be too annoyed by the teasing, he’d seen Claquesous’ face when his vision slowly faded back in from the grey buzzing roar it had become. He’d been scared. They both had.  
  
The gash on his side isn’t serious. Thénardier had gotten a lucky strike in, that’s all. It’s superficial, nowhere close to hitting bone and Montparnasse is grateful for that, but it’s still ragged and deep enough that he feels woozy. Gueulemer had done some emergency triage, patching him up with a pressure bandage from the ancient first aid kit they’d found behind the bar, but Montparnasse can feel the wetness leaking through it, uncomfortably warm against his skin.  
  
“I’m glad you two are having fun back here,” Glorieux says from the doorway to the storeroom, “since you’re both fucking off and leaving us to clean up your mess.”

It really had only been a minute or two that Montparnasse was out for, Gueulemer had mostly carried him down the stairs to the main room of the bar as soon as he was able to sit up on his own without swaying and Glorieux and the others had arrived not long after that.  
  
“I’m bleeding,” Montparnasse points out, “do you want me contaminating the scene even more?”  
  
Glorieux huffs, “Gueulemer said you’ll be fine, you just need stitching up.”  
  
Gueulemer had said a lot more than that besides, Montparnasse’s ears are still ringing from the lecture he’d got about storming off on his own after armed opponents.  
  
“Have you told Babet?” Claquesous asks and Montparnasse leans his weight more heavily against him in retaliation. He’s really not looking forward to explaining any of this evening’s events to her.  
  
“I have,” Glorieux sounds sadistically cheerful considering one of his self-confessed oldest friends is gravely injured. “She’s going to meet you at Bizarro and Gueulemer’s place.”  
  
Montparnasse sighs. “Wonderful.”  
  
Barrecarrosse clears his throat from behind Glorieux. “What do you want us to do with these guys?”  
  
Glorieux shares an exasperated look with Claquesous and turns to face him. “I want you to arrange them around the bar in an entertaining tableau, what do you think I want you to do with them? Get the corpses away from the windows and find something to block the door with.”

Montparnasse snorts and Glorieux wheels back around to shoot a nasty look at him.  
  
“Don’t you start, you let Thénardier go out a fucking window.”  
  
“I was a bit busy,” Montparnasse points out but Glorieux just rolls his eyes.

“Try not to get seriously injured again before I see you next,” he tells him, heading back out into the main room. “Where the _fuck_ is Brujon?”  
  
Barrecarrosse hesitates before following, looking at them both - Montparnasse sallow and sweaty, Claquesous’ hands wet with blood.  
  
“I just had my car detailed, could you try not to fuck it up too much?”  
  
“I’ll do my very best not to bleed out in your back seat,” Montparnasse assures him sarcastically.  
  
“At least put a towel down or something-”  
  
“Monsieur Dupont!” Glorieux snaps from the next room and Barrecarrosse sighs.  
  
“J ’arrive !” he gives Montparnasse one last despairing glance as he goes.  
  
“Such sympathy from our friends and coworkers,” Montparnasse mutters and Claquesous hums in amusement.  
  
“Ok,” Gueulemer hurries in through the open back door. “I’m parked right outside. We should try and be quick though, it’s getting busy.”  
  
“Great, let’s go,” Montparnasse pushes away from the wall and Claquesous’ arm tightens around his waist, Gueulemer coming to catch his elbow on his other side.  
  
“I can walk,” he grumbles, more for show than anything since he still feels sick and dizzy and his shoulder really fucking hurts where he caught that blow from the bat.  
  
Outside the sun has sunk below the line of the buildings, the sky is orange and gold and the streets are full of people making the most of the warm Spring evening. Gueulemer hurries them towards Barrecarrosse’s car and they duck inside as quickly as they can, Claquesous crawling into the back with Montparnasse.  
  
“No towels to be seen,” Claquesous says, “sorry, Barrecarrosse.”  
  
“What?” Gueulemer asks, snapping his seatbelt on and starting the car.  
  
“He was worried about the upholstery.”  
  
“Here,” Gueulemer roots around in the glove compartment and tosses a pack of tissues into Montparnasse’s lap.  
  
“What exactly am I supposed to do with these?” Montparnasse asks, ignoring his seatbelt despite Claquesous’ pointed look.  
  
“Better than nothing.”  
  
Montparnasse leans back against the seat and pulls his shirt up to examine the slapdash bandage job they’d done. The gauze is soaked through and Claquesous swears under his breath. He opens the tissue packet and presses a wad of them on top of the bandage, making Montparnasse yelp.  
  
“Fucking hell, take it easy.”  
  
“He’s still bleeding. Get a move on.”  
  
Gueulemer doesn’t answer but he steps on the accelerator and Claquesous pulls Montparnasse down until he’s laying across the length of the seat.

“You’ve got blood on your face, it’s not exactly inconspicuous,” he points out when Montparnasse frowns up at him. Montparnasse has a feeling it’s more so he has easier access to put pressure on the wound, but he’s not arguing.  
  
Gueulemer drives like a native Parisian, which is to say, like a man who does not fear death. The car lurches beneath them as they head down the bustling boulevard towards the main road and Montparnasse groans.  
  
“If he doesn’t slow down,” he warns Claquesous as they weave through the Saturday night traffic, “I’m gonna throw up all over your feet.”  
  
Claquesous pats Montparnasse’s head where it’s resting on his knees, “If you vomit on me I will throw you out of this car and you can walk home.”  
  
Montparnasse makes a nauseated sound as Gueulemer leans heavily on the horn and Claquesous takes pity on him.  
  
“Tell us about this mysterious person you’re seeing,” he says, “that’ll take your mind off it.”  
  
Montparnasse shuts his eyes tightly as Gueulemer takes a turn far too sharply. “What d’you wanna know?”  
  
The air in the car is too warm and Montparnasse can smell the coppery metallic scent of his own blood as he breathes slowly through his nose. He hurts, adrenaline trickling away like water through his fingers leaving only pain.  
  
“Hey,” Claquesous pinches his earlobe lightly. “Don’t pass out again.”  
  
“M’not,” Montparnasse slurs.  
  
“Start at the beginning, how did you meet?”  
  
“It was Éponine’s fault.”  
  
“Isn’t it always?”  
  
Claquesous extracts the entire sorry story from him as they speed their way back to the apartment. It’s much easier to talk about Jehan than to think about how much everything hurts, how fast his heart is beating, how sick he feels every time the car takes a sharp turn.

Gueulemer makes vaguely interested sounds from the front, Claquesous asks leading questions and Montparnasse lets himself talk, gushing praise about Jehan’s smile, how smart they are, how funny. Claquesous only laughs at him a few times and Montparnasse can just about think clearly enough to be appreciative of that. By the time they pull up on Gueulemer’s street he’s talking about how amazing they’d been on Friday, how calm, how much Gavroche and Azelma had liked them, and Claquesous’ smile is starting to look a little forced.  
  
“I wish I hadn’t asked,” he says as Gueulemer parks, but his hands are careful and gentle as he helps Montparnasse stumble out of the car and through the front door of the apartment building.

It’s better out in the open air, better now he’s not breathing in pollution and diesel fumes. Gueulemer takes over holding him up and they make it to the apartment without too much trouble.  


“I fucking told you so,” Bizarro says with no shame whatsoever when she opens the front door.  
  
“You can gloat later, Zarbi,” Claquesous steers her aside so Gueulemer and Montparnasse can stumble into the apartment, bloody and dishevelled.  
  
“Or you could not gloat at all and instead be nice to me, since I’m mortally wounded and everything,” Montparnasse suggests, wincing when Claquesous slaps a handful of clean tissues against his side.

“Serves you right for running off half-cocked without any fucking backup,” Bizarro says as she gestures them into the kitchen.  


“That’s what I said,” Gueulemer mutters, depositing Montparnasse into a chair.  
  
“Sit,” Bizarro says. “Don’t bleed on anything. Babet will be here in a minute.”

Montparnasse fights to catch his breath, leaning heavily on the table edge, cold sweat prickling the back of his neck. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he fumbles it out with shaking hands, grateful for the distraction.

It’s a picture message from Jehan, a teetering stack of books and notepads and a handwritten note on a purple post-it on top that says:

_revision :(_

The phone vibrates again before he can think of how to reply. 

_I wish I could have just stayed in bed with you all day instead of this,_ Jehan says and Montparnasse smiles as he texts back _me too_ with one hand, leaving smeary red thumb prints on the touch screen.

_Is it too much to say I miss you?_

Something throbs in Montparnasse’s chest, sharper even than the knife had been, and he wants to see Jehan urgently, wants to touch them, kiss them, hold them.  
  
_no_ , he sends quickly, before Jehan can start to worry. _I’ve missed you all day._

It’s not untrue, any moment he’s had spare he’s been thinking about them.

He hadn’t been thinking about them when he’d chased Thénardier up those stairs though. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Bizarro asks Montparnasse, cutting into his dark thoughts.

“I would argue that the stab wound is the most pressing issue,” Montparnasse says, locking his phone and gesturing vaguely at his blood-soaked shirt with it. 

Bizarro rolls her eyes, pulling a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and dropping it on the table in front of him.

“Drink up then, you big baby.”

Montparnasse twists the top off the bottle and takes a long pull, it’s cheap and it burns as it goes down. His eyes water.

“Besides that sad little scratch,” Bizarro continues, grinning when he coughs, “what are you looking all morose about?”

“He’s in love,” Gueulemer says before Montparnasse has got his breath back.

“Smitten,” Claquesous chimes in, and he’s clearly looking better if they’re willing to start giving him shit again.

“Besotted.”

“Totally fucked.”

“Yes, thank you, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” Montparnasse mutters, taking another swig from the bottle.

“You’re welcome, my prince,” Claquesous says, dry as dust, sitting down in the chair next to him.

Babet knocks at the door, her crisp rat-a-tat unmistakeable, and Gueulemer goes to let her in.

“In love?” Bizarro curls her lip like they’d said he had the plague. “Didn’t you learn anything last time?”

“What do you mean, _last time?”_ Montparnasse eyes her narrowly.

“Your sad little crush on Grantaire?”

Montparnasse snaps his head around to glare at Gueulemer as he comes back into the kitchen.

“Traitor,” he hisses. Gueulemer had sworn to take their alcohol drenched post-break-up heart to heart to the grave. “I never said I was in love.”

“But you are now?” Bizarro asks.  
  
Montparnasse rolls his eyes and throws his handful of bloody tissues at her.

Babet appears in the doorway with a bag of medical supplies and a frown. “What’s all this about?”

“Montparnasse has been struck with cupid’s arrow,” Bizarro grins from her seat perched on the countertop and Babet’s left eyebrow twitches. 

“Also, I’ve been stabbed,” Montparnasse adds. 

“Congratulations,” Babet says over Claquesous’ snickering and sets her bag down on the table. “Why are you drinking? You know better than that. Alcohol thins the blood.”  
  
Bizarro makes a guilty face behind her back but no one moves to take the bottle away from him.  
  
“Glorieux told you what happened?” Montparnasse asks and Babet nods shortly.  
  
“He did. We’ll talk about it later,” she pulls a chair out and settles down next to Montparnasse. “Take your shirt off. ”

Montparnasse unbuttons the ruined shirt, peels it off with a wince and drops it on the table. “That was McQueen,” he says sadly as Bizarro scoops it up and throws it in the trash.

“Why did you wear it to work then?” Claquesous asks, offering Babet a pair of forceps from the cutlery drawer. 

Babet gives him a filthy look as she snaps on a pair of gloves. “Do those look sterile to you?”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on getting stabbed,” Montparnasse points out, sliding his zippo across the table to Claquesous.

“Does anyone ever plan on getting stabbed?” Gueulemer asks nonchalantly.

“ _Getting_ stabbed?” Claquesous says. “No.”

“So, Parnasse. What’s the story?” Bizarro hops off the counter and starts fishing through the first aid kit, looking for disinfectant wipes and rubbing alcohol.

“Should you be holding those that close to the flame?” Gueulemer asks Claquesous quietly as he brandishes the lighter at the forceps.

“Everyone sit down and be quiet,” Babet orders as Montparnasse swears at Bizarro and Claquesous burns his fingers. 

There’s blissful silence for a few minutes as Babet cleans out the gash in his ribs and expertly stitches it closed. Montparnasse leans back in his chair and keeps his eyes shut, trying not to focus on the pinch and tug of the needle.

“Well?” Bizarro asks when Babet finishes the last suture and stands up to throw her gloves out.

“Hm?” Montparnasse reaches up to prod at his stitches but Claquesous slaps his hand away. His head is pleasantly fuzzy from the fresh adrenaline rush and the alcohol and he’s distantly concerned that if he tries to stand up he might fall over.

“What tragic starving artist type have you fallen for this time?” Bizarro asks.

“Fuck you,” Montparnasse says. “They’re not tragic.”

“And the rest?” she asks, ignoring Gueulemer’s desperate head shaking. 

“Don’t get him started again,” Claquesous begs her quietly.

Montparnasse says nothing, lost in the memory of Jehan in his bed that morning, the softness of their skin, their eyes glowing in the pale light.  


“Ah!” Bizarro kicks his shin under the table. _“Putain de merde.”_

“Language,” Babet flicks the back of his ear and Bizarro laughs.

“Is this another one of your doomed love affairs?” she asks, sounding entirely too pleased.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Tell me everything,” Bizarro leans in to wipe the worst of the blood from his stomach and side. “You’re so tender-hearted and dreamy-eyed about romance, it’s hilarious.”  
  
“I’m glad I amuse you,” Montparnasse hisses, swatting her away when she scrubs roughly at the dried blood speckled across his cheeks.

“They’re friends with Cosette and Éponine,” Gueulemer chimes in and Montparnasse wonders aloud why he tells them anything ever.

“Because no one else will listen to you whine,” Claquesous says and steals the whiskey right out of his hand when he reaches for it.  
  
“You literally asked for it,” Montparnasse scowls at him.

“What’s their name?” Bizarro asks, suspiciously casual.

“Jehan Prouvaire,” Montparnasse tries not to sigh the words but doesn’t quite manage it judging by the amused hum from Babet.

“Prouvaire?” Bizarro sits up, incredulous, and Montparnasse remembers in one horrifying swoop that she’s no doubt served all of Les Amis at the bar before and, since she’s friends with Matti and Gibbi who are friends with Louison who works at the Musain, she probably knows exactly who he’s talking about. “ _Really_?” 

“Shut up, they’re perfect,” he mumbles, hiding his face in his hands.

“The little red-haired one?”

“They are _radiant_ ,” Montparnasse growls and the world swims around him when he glares at her.

“You have the weirdest taste,” Bizarro says, dabbing antiseptic around the edges of Babet’s neat stitches and carefully pressing a dressing over them.

The mocking commentary doesn’t let up for the rest of the evening and Montparnasse gets sloppily drunk in protest, which doesn’t help matters since he ends up running his mouth.

“You’re obsessed,” Claquesous almost smiles as he waxes lyrical about the wings of Jehan’s shoulder blades. “It’s a disgrace.”

“Sounds like they’re far too good for you,” Bizarro jokes running her fingers through Montparnasse’s messy hair.

“I know,” he says, leaning back against her where she’s standing behind him, head lolling against her stomach. “They are.”  
  
Babet looks up from where she’s been sitting with her phone all evening, keeping a quiet but watchful eye on them all as she pulls the strings to put right all the trouble Lapointe caused.  
  
“Why would you think that?”  
  
Montparnasse blinks at her, fuzzy with whiskey, and thinks the answer to that should be obvious. “Good boyfriends don’t go and get themselves stabbed when they could be helping their partners revise for exams,” he explains. “They also probably don’t kill people, I assume.”

Gueulemer and Claquesous exchange a look across the table.

“Ok,” Bizarro says, wrapping her arms around Montparnasse’s shoulders. “I think it’s time for bed.”  
  
“I should say goodnight,” he says, reaching for his phone, “and tell them I’m sorry-”

Claquesous snatches his mobile away before he can pick it up, “I don’t think drunk texting them murder confessions is the best idea, you can talk to them in the morning.”

Montparnasse pouts but lets Bizarro gently pull him out of his seat. 

“Come on, you’re sleeping with me in Gee’s room. Babet, you can take my bed.”  
  
“Thank you, Sabine. Goodnight Montparnasse,” Babet smiles fondly at him.  
  
“G’night,” Montparnasse waves vaguely at them all as Bizarro leads him away.

It’s dark in Gueulemer’s bedroom but Bizarro doesn't bother to turn on the light. Montparnasse stumbles over to the bed and sits down heavily. He’s mostly numb with alcohol, but he feels bruised all over and he knows it’ll only be worse in the morning.

“You know we’re only teasing, right?” Bizarro says as she helps him strip off his trousers. “We’re just giving you shit because that’s what we do. Because you’re the youngest,” she pokes him in the thigh, “and because we love you.”

“Sure,” Montparnasse agrees easily, eyes drifting closed. 

He does know that. Between the four of them there are too many sharp edges and potential triggers to count. They trust one another implicitly, but vulnerability is something they’ve learned to keep to themselves. It still sneaks in, more often than any of them would like, but there’s an unspoken agreement that they don’t make a big deal of it when it happens.

“Here,” Bizarro shoves a too-big t-shirt over his head, mussing his hair and making him jump. “Put your arms through. Gee won’t thank you for getting blood all over his sheets.”  
  
“He wouldn’t care,” Montparnasse mumbles, awkwardly fumbling his arms through the sleeves and breathing in sharply through his teeth when he stretches his shoulder the wrong way.  
  
“Well I have to sleep in here too and I won’t be happy about it either.”  
  
Montparnasse crawls under the covers and heaves a sigh. The room is spinning unpleasantly and he wishes he hadn’t drank so much. He wants to be at home, in his own bed. He wants Jehan.

Bizarro slips under the sheets next to him and curls up on her side. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know?”  
  
Montparnasse makes a sleepy offended sound, too tired to form words, and Bizarro grabs hold of his hand where it’s laying on the bed between them. Her nails dig into his palm but the pressure of her fingers is grounding.  
  
“Stop getting hurt,” she says quietly. “I don’t like it.”  
  
“Sorry,” Montparnasse manages to sigh, muffled by the pillows. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”  
  
Bizarro says something else, but he’s so tired it just sounds like noise and he drifts off mid-sentence.

~

Montparnasse wakes up in Gueulemer’s bed with a headache and a vague memory of Bizarro stroking his hair.

He feels terrible, throat dry and scratchy, head pounding and stomach roiling. It only gets worse when he tries to move and all of the previous day’s injuries come alive in screaming protest. Montparnasse groans aloud, his shoulder a massive ache, the stitches on his ribs pulling hot and sharp as he breathes.

There’s a glass of water on the floor beside the bed with a packet of painkillers sitting next to it and Montparnasse carefully rolls onto his good side so he can reach down to grab them both. He drinks half of the glass of water too fast and has to swallow hard for a minute or so, hoping his stomach won’t rebel against it. He’s not sure he can move fast enough to make it to the bathroom and Gueulemer would not appreciate him getting sick in his bed. He doesn’t, thank god, and he sips at the rest of the water, swallowing down a double dose of painkillers because there’s no one around to tell him not to.

Montparnasse levers himself carefully back down on the mattress and stares at the ceiling, he can’t help thinking that he much preferred how he’d woken up yesterday morning. Aside from the actual physical pain, and the pulsing whiskey hangover, he feels off - emotionally unbalanced. It’s just a side effect of the adrenaline crash and the booze and what was, in all honesty, a fucking insane weekend. He knows this, but the shakiness is unsettling and he doesn’t like it.

It’s late morning, they’ll be in class, but he wants to text Jehan good morning. Claquesous had taken his phone last night though and it’s not anywhere he can see. Jehan has exams all week and Montparnasse feels more than slightly shit for being glad that they’ll be too busy to see him. It’s easier this way, he has time to heal up a bit first. He doesn’t have to try and explain.

When the painkillers have finally kicked in and he feels less like he’s on the verge of death, he carefully rolls out of bed and ventures out into the apartment to look for his phone. Bizarro is nowhere to be found but when he wanders through to the kitchen Babet is sitting at the table with a cup of tea and the morning paper.

“Go look,” she says quietly, nodding at the other room. Montparnasse sticks his head around the door and even despite his crushing hangover, he manages to laugh under his breath.

Claquesous and Gueulemer are asleep on the couch. Claquesous is curled up with his arms over his face, tucked in against the cushions with Gueulemer curved around him like a bracket, one arm under Claquesous’s neck the other over his waist. It doesn’t look at all comfortable.

“They’re ridiculous,” he says to Babet back in the kitchen, foraging through the empty fridge.

“You have no feet to stand on, habibi,” she says, hiding a smile behind her cup.

“Ugh, don’t,” Montparnasse groans, sitting down across from her with a mostly clean mug full of juice. “That was the whiskey and blood loss talking, you can’t hold it against me.”

“How's your side?”

“Fine,” he shrugs thoughtlessly and winces when the sutures tug. “I think. My shoulder hurts more.”

The bruises have swollen and deepened overnight, stiffening the joint. When Montparnasse rucks his borrowed t-shirt up and peels the edge of the dressing away to check his stitches, Babet makes a disapproving sound.

“Not at the breakfast table, honestly. Who taught you manners.”  
  
“You did,” Montparnasse smirks at her.

“Did I not also teach you to keep your guard up?”

“It’s one tiny little stab wound,” he sighs. “Don’t go making a fuss.”  
  
“I will stop fussing when you stop getting yourself into these scrapes.”  
  
“Mm, good luck with that.”

Babet looks at him seriously over her tea, “You could have been killed.”

Montparnasse avoids her eyes, folding the dressing in half and throwing it away. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You should have waited.”  
  
The line between work and personal life has always been blurry for Montparnasse. Patron-Minette is his family as much as Éponine and Azelma and Gavroche are, the things he does for Babet stem from his own sense of fidelity as much as any desire for personal gain. It goes both ways though, to a point. Anyone else who’d fucked up as badly as he had last night would possibly not have lived to be having this conversation now, they certainly wouldn’t have Babet watching him with worried eyes.  
  
“If we’d waited they’d have had time to move against you,” Montparnasse says, fiddling with his mug of juice. “I’m sorry about Thénardier getting away, but Glorieux said you got the rest of them.”

“We did, but that’s not what I meant. You know it’s only been a few months since the last time you were hurt because you acted without taking the time to think beforehand.”

“I know, I fucked up.” _Again_. “I owe you better than that.”

Babet sets her empty tea cup down on the table. “Is that why you do the things I ask of you? Because you owe me?”  
  
Montparnasse’s head hurts. He shuts his eyes and rubs at his brow bone as he answers, “What else would I do?”  
  
Babet is quiet for a long pause and Montparnasse can’t help but feel like he’s said more than he meant to.

“What are we doing about Thénardier?” he asks, hoping to break the strange tension.

Babet pours herself another cup of tea. “I need to be sure how much of the leak was coming from him, before anything else.”  
  
“Claquesous said they were working on turning people?”  
  
“No one of any real importance,” Babet says and Montparnasse relaxes slightly. “No one you’ll miss.”  
  
“Good.”

“Magnon has arranged for Madame Thénardier to be collected,” Babet drops a slice of lemon into her tea and Montparnasse can only assume she brought it with her, because there’s not usually any fresh citrus fruits laying around this kitchen. “I’d like to speak to Gavroche, to find out if he knows anything of what Thénardier had planned. Perhaps Azelma too. Glorieux can do it if they’re not comfortable speaking directly to me, but I would prefer to see them myself.”

“Yeah, sure,” Montparnasse says. “We can do that.”  
  
“Éponine won’t mind? I know she’s not my biggest fan.”

Éponine has a healthy level of suspicion towards any adult with influence, but she’s always been especially sceptical when it comes to Babet. Montparnasse has never really tried to talk her around, mainly because he doesn’t have much of an argument against her points. From her perspective Babet was the person who dragged Montparnasse deeper and deeper into a life of crime and, if he’s honest, she’s not exactly wrong about that.

“She’s protective.”  
  
“Of you as well,” Babet smiles.  
  
“She’ll understand. It’s important.” Montparnasse hasn’t let himself think about what he’s going to tell Éponine yet. “I don’t know how she’s going to feel about all of this.”  
  
Babet rests a hand over Montparnasse’s and squeezes his fingers. “You don’t have to be the one to tell her.”  
  
“No, it should be me.”

Montparnasse doesn’t think Éponine will hate him for telling her that her father has to die, but he’s not certain. Blood has always been a thorny subject for them both. It would have been better in so many ways if he’d just killed Thénardier last night. At least then it would already be done and they could get on with dealing with it.

“At the very least,” Montparnasse says, not proud of himself for thinking it, “it’s easier with everything that’s happened this weekend. Éponine’s angry, Zelma and Gav don’t want to go back. Claquesous wasn’t wrong when he said that with them both dead the custody issue would be simpler.”  
  
“I will help with that, as much as is in my power,” Babet reassures him. “I would have stepped in long before now if you’d allowed it.”  
  
“That was their choice, not mine.”  
  
“And I listened to you then, but things are different now.”  


Montparnasse nods and leans over to grab his phone where someone has plugged it in to charge on the kitchen worktop. He texts Éponine asking what she’s doing and sends a message to Jehan, absently scratching at the smears of dried blood on the screen with his fingernail as he waits for them both to reply.

“Sooner would be better than later, I would like to stay on top of all this,” Babet says, standing to refill the kettle.  
  
Éponine texts back quickly when he asks if she’s at home, she’s not but she will be in about an hour once her morning shift is over.  
  
“Do we still have Barrecarrosse’s car?” Montparnasse asks.  
  
“No, he picked it up earlier. But we have mine.”  
  
“We can go over together then.”  
  
“Good,” Babet sits back down and looks at Montparnasse with a worrying gleam in her eye. “So, this Jehan,” she says and Montparnasse groans.

“Do we have to have this conversation?”

“You care for them?” Babet forges on, unmoved.

“Yes,” Montparnasse mutters, abandoning his phone to pick at the sticky residue the bandage left behind on his ribs.

“And do they care for you?”  
  
Montparnasse shrugs. He thinks so. Enough to want to put a name to their relationship, at any rate. Enough to miss him when he’s not there.  
  
Montparnasse checks his phone again, scrolls through their text history. He lingers over a selfie Jehan sent last week: they’re sitting on the couch in their apartment, reading glasses on and hair a mess. The camera is angled carefully to capture Feuilly’s face as he and Bahorel play what looks to be a very intense game of Scrabble.  
  
_Look at these nerds_ , Jehan had captioned it, and when Montparnasse had asked why they weren’t playing they’d explained that they were banned for repeatedly making up words and claiming they were Hebrew or Latin.  
  
_My mistake was using Latin_ , they added, _Bahorel called me out on that one. Now I’m just the official dictionary checker.  
_  
“Are you being safe?” Babet interrupts his musings and Montparnasse chokes on air.  
  
“ _Christ_ , Babet.”  
  
“It’s a simple question.”  
  
“We haven’t, we’re not-” Montparnasse hides his burning cheeks in his hands. “Can we not talk about this, please?”

“Yes, let’s not,” Bizarro says, coming into the kitchen with her arms full of bread and breakfast foods. “I don’t want to think about Montparnasse’s sex life before I’ve even had my coffee.”

“It’s my job to ask, I care about you all,” Babet says, and that she makes it sound like a threat is not remotely surprising.

“So do I, but I care about breakfast more,” Bizarro replies, dropping a bag of pastries on the table.

“I hate you both,” Montparnasse mutters, snatching a croissant from the top of the bag and beating a less than elegant retreat to the other room.

Claquesous has turned over in his sleep and is sprawled across Gueulemer’s chest, fingers clutching at the neck of his t-shirt. Gueulemer’s half falling off the cushions but he’s got one arm around Claquesous’ waist, nose buried in his hair.  
  
Montparnasse smirks as he takes several pictures on his phone and sends one to Laveuve, who texts back a string of exclamation points and heart emojis and then, a minute later, _glad you’re not dead!_

Once Claquesous and Gueulemer have roused from their puppy pile and breakfast has been eaten, Bizarro corners Montparnasse in the kitchen where he’s trying to apply a fresh dressing to his side.

“So,” she says with an alarming smile, plucking the bandage out of his awkward fingers and sticking it in place, “you and the little poet haven’t sung the body electric yet? That _is_ a surprise.”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear about it,” Montparnasse flinches away from her fingers as she presses down too hard on the edges of the gauze.

“Not with your Maman sitting right there, no,” Bizarro wrinkles her nose. “That’s weird. But you can tell me now.”

“Don’t call her that.”

Babet has gone outside to phone Glorieux, checking up on the situation at Lapointe’s bar.

“Come on, Parnasse,” Bizarro pokes him in the arm, right below the nasty purpling bruises. “I just find it hard to believe you haven’t fucked them yet.”

“I don’t talk about your girlfriends like this, you know,” Montparnasse points out.

Bizarro snorts. “What girlfriends.”

“R told me you went on a date with Floréal.”  
  
“That fucker,” Bizarro mutters. “It wasn’t a date. We’re not dating, we’re just hanging out.”

“Right,” Montparnasse says sceptically. “How many times is that now?”

“Stop changing the subject.”  
  
“Stop asking about my sex life!”  
  
“Never in all the years I’ve known you have you ever been reluctant to talk about sex,” Bizarro regards him suspiciously. “Are they ace?”  
  
“Not as far as I know.”  
  
“And yet…”  
  
“I just don’t want to rush into anything, alright?” Montparnasse snaps. “It’s- I like them. A lot. And I’ve never had a relationship before that wasn’t only about fucking. I don’t want to ruin it.”  
  
“Aw, my boy’s growing up,” Bizarro flings her arms around his shoulders and he flails back against the counter.  


“Get the fuck off me,” he grumbles. “I am recently impaled, for fucks sake.”

Bizarro catches his face in her hands and beams at him. “So proud of you,” she says. “But do me a favour and get on with it, will you? All this mushy feelings shit makes me feel ill.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”  
  
“Good boy” she pinches his cheek none too gently. “Now you’re getting it.”

“Get dressed, children,” Babet calls from the hallway, “we’re leaving in ten minutes!”

“I have nothing to wear,” Montparnasse realises and Bizarro grins at him.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find you something.”

She saunters out of the kitchen heading for Gueulemer’s bedroom and Montparnasse sighs.

“Fuck.”

~

The car ride back to Montparnasse and Éponine’s apartment is only slightly less unpleasant now that he’s not actively dying. 

It’s an unnecessarily sunny day and Montparnasse keeps his eyes closed for most of the journey behind the oversized purple sunglasses he stole from Bizarro’s bedroom. She’s ditched them all to go off to work at the Corinthe, but Claquesous is slouching in the front seat and Gueulemer quietly stares out the window next to Montparnasse in the back. 

Babet is a much better driver than Gueulemer thankfully, but that means it’s all too soon that they arrive and Montparnasse has to confront the thought of actually telling Éponine what’s happening.

“Fucking shit,” he says and Babet turns around in the driver's seat to look at him.

“What is it?”

“There’s no way to do this without the kids realising what’s going on,” he sighs.  
  
“No.”  
  
Montparnasse pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ok. Let me talk to Éponine first. Can you just, wait out here?”  
  
“You couldn’t have done this before we got here?” Claquesous complains, but he’s rolling down the window and settling back in his seat comfortably so he’s clearly not too annoyed.

“It’s not really the kind of conversation you can have on the phone,” Gueulemer points out and Montparnasse shoots him a grateful look.

“Exactly. Do you have a cigarette?”  
  
Gueulemer fishes his pack out of his jacket and throws them at Montparnasse.  
  
“Don’t smoke them all.”  
  
“Sure, whatever,” Montparnasse gets out of the car and leans against it for a moment as he sparks up, the metal warm from the sun against his back.  


_I’m downstairs,_ he texts Éponine and heads into the apartment hallway, cigarette in hand.

Éponine doesn’t reply and Montparnasse sits down on the steps.

After a minute or five of anxious waiting a door on the next floor opens, letting out a cloud of smoke that fills the corridor with the spicy scent of cheap hash. Montparnasse blinks against the haze and a second later Enzo appears, joint in hand, looking almost as haggard as Montparnasse feels.

“Hé," Enzo blinks dopily at him, “t'as une sale gueule, mec.”

“Thanks.”  
  
“You looking to score?” Enzo asks, fishing in his pockets for a lighter.  
  
“No, just waiting for Éponine.”  
  
“Forgot your keys, huh?” Enzo nods sagely. “That happens to me all the time. You’re lucky you got someone to let you in.”  
  
“What happened to the guy who used to live with you?” Montparnasse asks, leaning carefully against the wall of the stairwell and flicking ash off his second cigarette.  
  
“Ah, man,” Enzo sighs. “He stole from me. Asshole. He had to go.”  
  
“That sucks.”  
  
Enzo nods. “You sure you’re not looking to buy?”  
  
“No thanks.”  
  
The sound of footsteps echoes on the stairs above them and they both look up.  
  
“Ok, man. À plus.”  
  
Enzo drifts back into his apartment and shuts the door, whatever he’d come out for clearly forgotten.  
  
Éponine appears around the bend of the staircase and stops, taking in Montparnasse’s slumped posture, his unwashed hair, the stolen sunglasses. Bizarro found him a sweatshirt of Gueulemer’s to wear and it hangs off him unattractively, too baggy to be chic.  
  
“What,” Éponine says, eyebrows raised, “the fuck.”  
  
Montparnasse pats the step beside him. “Sit down.”

“Why aren’t we going upstairs?”

“I need to talk to you away from Zelma and Gav.”  
  
Éponine glances back up towards the apartment, “And why aren’t we going outside?”  
  
“Because Babet and Claquesous and Gueulemer are out there, and because I just sat down and I don’t think I can move again for at least ten minutes.”  
  
“What’s going on?” Éponine asks, and she looks worried now, fear creeping in behind the amusement.

“Just sit down, Ponine. Please.” Montparnasse says tiredly and this time she does.

Éponine is silent while he explains to her what happened the previous night, what’s been happening the past few months. She doesn’t speak when he tells her about Lapointe, the setup, the bar. She’s quiet when he tells her about her father’s involvement and his escape, leaving out the details of their fight, but her hands tighten on her knees and her posture tenses.  
  
“So Babet wants to talk to them. See if he said anything in front of them.”  
  
Éponine nods vacantly. “What about my m- what about her?”

Montparnasse shrugs awkwardly. “I’m not sure. You can speak to Babet, if you want to-”

“No,” Éponine interrupts. “No, I don’t want to know.”  
  
“Ok.” Montparnasse can’t think of anything else to say.

“I knew this would happen, one day,” Éponine says eventually, sounding much older than she should. “I’ve been waiting for it my whole life. I just… didn’t think it would be today.”

Montparnasse doesn’t know how to respond to that and Éponine stands abruptly before he can pick the least pathetic sounding platitude running through his head.  
  
“I’m going to tell them you’re here, come up in a minute,” she says and makes her way back up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing like an impossibly heavy burden has settled on her shoulders over the course of their conversation.

Montparnasse tilts his head back against the wall, shoving the sunglasses up on top of his head when they dig into his nose. He smokes another cigarette slowly before texting Babet to come in and heading upstairs to the apartment.

Azelma greets them all at the door, flinging her arms around Gueulemer and Claquesous excitedly. Gueulemer stares blackly at the bruise on her cheek but quickly fixes a smile on when Gavroche slouches over to say hello, trying to show less enthusiasm than his sister but clearly just as pleased to see them.

Éponine’s standing awkwardly near the couch with her arms crossed tightly, but she nods at Babet.  
  
“I’m making coffee,” she says. “Sit down, if you like,” and she vanishes into the kitchen.  
  
Babet hides a smile. “Well, that’s about as pleasant a greeting as I was expecting.”  
  
Montparnasse sighs and heads for the couch, letting her take his chair.  
  
It’s…weird, is probably the best word for it. Gueulemer and Claquesous chat easily with Azelma and Gavroche, catching up on what they’ve been doing. Éponine brings out coffee for everyone and sits stiffly on the arm of the chair next to Montparnasse, avoiding Babet’s eyes.  
  
Claquesous is quietly talking to Azelma about something that’s either science homework or a considerably less legal subject when Gavroche sits up and looks at Babet.  
  
“You want to know about our dad, right?”  
  
“If you don’t mind,” Babet smiles, she’s always seemed terribly charmed by Gavroche the few times they’ve met.  
  
Gavroche nods and after a brief pause, he starts talking. After two minutes of intimate details about late-night meetings, overheard phone conversations and errands run to questionable locations, Éponine stands up abruptly and walks away.  
  
“I’ll go,” Montparnasse says, patting Azelma on the shoulder when she makes to follow her.

“I should have done more,” Éponine says when Montparnasse finds her in her bedroom, smoking a cigarette out the window with shaky hands and red eyes. “I should never have left them there, this is all my fucking fault. I knew what he was like, what they’re both like, and I didn’t try and get them out sooner.”

“Éponine,” Montparnasse starts but she shakes her head, stubbing the butt out in a spray of sparks and throwing it down to the street below.  
  
“ _Don’t_. Don’t, ok. You don’t get it, they’re my _family_.”  
  
“They’re my family too.”

Éponine’s shoulders shake and then she’s crying, one hand pressed over her mouth to keep the sobs in. Montparnasse pulls her into his arms and she clutches at his back.

“It’s my fault,” she says again and he strokes her hair.  
  
“No, it’s not. It’s not.”

Montparnasse holds her until she stops crying. When she pulls back she looks dreadful but also somehow better, lighter. 

“Sorry,” she almost smiles, wiping at her face and gesturing at the soggy patch on Gueulemer’s sweatshirt.  
  
“It’s fine, it’s not mine.”  
  
Éponine sighs. “This is so fucked up,” she says. “Do you have another cigarette?”  
  
“You’re supposed to be quitting,” Montparnasse reminds her, pulling the pack out of his pocket and lighting two.  
  
They sit on the windowsill and smoke, shoulders shoved up against each other like they’re teenagers again.  
  
“None of this is your fault,” Montparnasse says and Éponine pulls a face but doesn’t argue.  
  
It’s a few minutes before anyone comes to find them, Gueulemer knocking lightly on the door and wrinkling his nose when he notices the damp, snotty mess on Montparnasse’s shoulder.  
  
“You ok?” he asks Éponine and she nods, rubbing her stinging eyes with her knuckles.  
  
“I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Alright. Parnasse, you gonna be ok if we go?”  
  
Éponine blinks at him suspiciously at that and Montparnasse narrows his eyes at Gueulemer.  
  
“Of course, we’ll be fine.”  
  
“What didn’t you tell me?” Éponine asks in a low voice as they head back into the main room and Montparnasse shakes his head.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“I hate when you say that,” Éponine sighs but she drops it, going to sit next to Gavroche who slips his arm around her waist without pausing in his conversation with Claquesous.  
  
Babet waves Montparnasse over to where she’s stood by the door waiting to leave, texting Glorieux by the looks of things.  
  
“Did you get anything useful?” he asks, leaning against the wall because standing upright feels far too much like hard work.  
  
“I think so,” Babet says, frowning at her phone before turning her attention to Montparnasse. “Will you be ok?”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he says again, “you can all stop freaking out now.” Babet’s mouth thins and he smiles apologetically. “Honestly, I’m good.”  
  
“Well,” she says. “You’re taking some time off. Longer than last time.”  
  
“Great,” Montparnasse sighs, “I’ll be bored to tears in a week.”  
  
“Better bored to tears than dead,” Babet snaps and Montparnasse blinks at her.  
  
Claquesous and Gueulemer are saying their farewells and Babet turns to wave at Gavroche, laughing softly when he winks at her.  
  
“You know the drill,” she says, turning back to Montparnasse. “Keep it clean and dry, change the dressings regularly, don’t over exert yourself and tear out my perfect stitches.”  
  
“I know, I won’t.”  
  
Babet catches his chin in her fingers. “Be good.”  
  
She hugs him then and Montparnasse jerks in surprise before carefully hugging her back. Claquesous and Gueulemer hustle past them out the door, calling out their own goodbyes, and then the apartment is suddenly empty.  
  
Azelma and Gavroche are sitting squashed up next to each other on the couch, attention forcibly fixed on the cartoons playing on Montparnasse’s laptop.  
  
Éponine stares straight ahead, blank-faced. “I have to…” she trails off, standing up and heading for her bedroom.  
  
“Yeah,” Montparnasse says pointlessly. “Same. You two alright?” he asks and Azelma nods without looking away from the screen.  
  
“Cosette’s coming over.”  
  
“Thank god,” Montparnasse mutters under his breath. “I’m going to go lay down, yell if you need something.”  
  
“Ok,” Gav agrees easily and Montparnasse shuffles off down the hallway after Éponine.

~

It’s stuffy and too warm in Montparnasse’s bedroom, it makes his headache throb and his stomach churn. Montparnasse opens the window to let the breeze in and sits down on the bed, not moving for few long minutes. He feels like he could sleep for a month and still be tired.

Montparnasse plugs his phone in to charge and carefully lays back against the pillows. The sun is at just the right angle to come in through the curtains and shine directly into his eyes. He drags the closest pillow over and shoves it over his head, groaning gratefully as the searing light is blocked out. 

The pillowcase smells like jasmine.

“What are you doing?” a curious voice asks from the doorway.

“Oh good,” Montparnasse says, extremely grateful that his face is hidden, “if you could just come over here and hold this down until I stop breathing, that’d be great.”  
  
“Ha ha,” Cosette says flatly and Montparnasse pulls the pillow away to look at her. She’s leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved into the pockets of her skirt. “I ran into Babet outside. She told me some of what’s happened.”  


“Some?”  
  
“Well, I didn’t want to pry. It’s not my business, after all.”  
  
Babet adores Cosette and it’s not difficult to see why. She is adorable after all, and she’s always been as polite and respectful as Éponine is aggressively suspicious towards Babet and the others. He’s pretty sure Babet likes both of them better than she likes him actually, now that he thinks about it.  
  
Montparnasse tosses the pillow aside and tries not to wince too obviously when he sits up, but Cosette has sharp eyes and she knows the signs.  
  
“You’re hurt,” she says, coming into the room with a frown.  
  
“It’s ok.”  
  
Cosette sits down next to him on the bed, “How bad is it?”  
  
“I’m _fine_.”  
  
“Bad then.”  
  
Montparnasse gives up and lays back down. “Shouldn’t you be with Ponine?”  
  
“She’s on the phone to Marius,” Cosette says, hands folded in her lap. “I’m too close to all this to help her, really. I think I’d make things worse rather than better.”  
  
“Impartiality,” Montparnasse agrees, “is a fickle bitch.”  
  
“Was it him?” Cosette asks, one handing twitching like she wants to reach out and find where he’s hurting like they did for each other when they were children.  
  
“Yeah,” there’s no point in lying, not at this stage. She’d know anyway, Cosette always knew when he lied.

Cosette hums and Montparnasse looks over at her. “What?”  
  
“Just- it makes sense. Babet’s angry.”  
  
“Of course she is, people were literally plotting against her.”  
  
“No, I mean, because you’re hurt.”  
  
Montparnasse stares and Cosette blows out a frustrated breath. “Don’t start.”  
  
“What? I didn’t even say anything.”  
  
“You have an awful sense of self-worth for someone so arrogant, do you know that?”  
  
“Ouch, alouette,” Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. “Tell me how you really feel.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Cosette slumps down on the bed beside him and rests her head on his shoulder, right over the bruises.  
  
Montparnasse swears and jerks away at the pressure and Cosette bolts upright in alarm.  
  
“Sorry!”  
  
“It’s alright, you’re fine. Just, don’t lean on me, would you?”  
  
“Sorry,” Cosette says again, eyes wide with contrition, and Montparnasse pulls her back down so they’re lying side by side.  
  
They’re quiet for a while, listening to the sound of Gavroche’s cartoons in the next room, the cars passing outside, people talking as they pass by below. Montparnasse tries to think of nothing, tries to not drift back to the hundreds of other times Cosette has found him bruised and defensive and curled up next to him like she could help with just her presence. (She does though, that’s the thing he won’t admit. She always has.)  
  
“What happens now?” Cosette asks.  
  
“Well,” Montparnasse says, one hand flung dramatically over his eyes in place of the pillow, “I was planning on taking a nap.”  
  
“I meant with Thénardier.”  


Montparnasse is well aware. “He ran, but no one can hide from Patron-Minette. Not for long.”  


“So, you’ll find him,” Cosette says. “What then?”  
  
“It’s out of my hands,” Montparnasse tells her and she nods slowly.  
  
“I suppose I should pity him,” Cosette sighs, frowning across the bed at the curtains blowing gently in the breeze from the open window.  
  
“Do you?”  
  
Cosette is quiet for a long breath before she answers. “No. I’m not that good of a person.”  
  
“You’re the best person I know,” Montparnasse tells her, and it’s true.  
  
Cosette smiles a wry little sideways smile. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“I meant it as one,” he says and she hums.  
  
“Do you want to know the secret to being good?”  
  
Montparnasse huffs out a heavy breath, “What is this, unsolicited advice day?”  
  
“I can stop talking if you prefer.”  
  
Montparnasse feels unpleasantly guilty at that, he hasn’t seen much of Cosette lately and it’s nice of her to come and keep him company. Just because he’s nursing his bruised pride along with his other various injuries doesn’t mean he needs to be a dick to her.  
  
“Fuck it, why not. Thrill me.”

“No need to sound so eager,” Cosette says, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m listening, I promise.”  
  
Street sounds filter through the open window, a dog barks, a car door slams. Cosette is quiet at his side and when Montparnasse turns his head to look at her she’s frowning lightly, her face solemn and earnest.  
  
“It’s a choice,” she says, watching shadows move on the ceiling. “It’s a choice you make, every single day.”

“Well,” Montparnasse says when it’s clear she’s not going to elaborate, “I’m shit out of luck then.”  
  
Cosette rolls up onto her side to look down at him. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Being good is a choice? So then, being bad is one too.”  
  
Cosette blinks, “Yes, I suppose that’s how it works.”  


“Well sometimes the choice is made for you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

People have been telling Montparnasse he’s bad as long as he can remember, it’s always been easier to live down to their expectations.

“I’m not saying it’s the easy choice,” Cosette says. “It’s about making the right one. Goodness isn’t some benevolent force bestowed upon the worthy and denied to everyone else.”

“You sound like your father,” Montparnasse gripes and Cosette beams at him.

“Thank you.”  
  
Montparnasse has only met Fauchelevent twice. The first time was a few years ago now, before he knew who the man was, in an encounter he’d love to forget entirely. The second, when Cosette had properly introduced them, hadn't been a rousing success either. He has nothing against the man though, not after everything he’s done for Cosette.  


“I’m not going to just suddenly become a better person overnight,” Montparnasse says. “The world doesn’t work like that. People don’t renounce their wicked ways and turn to charity in real life, that’s just… biblical shit.”  
  
“Some people do.”  
  
“Not me.”  
  
“That’s not what I mean, anyway. It’s not about being perfect. It doesn’t have to be soup kitchens and volunteering and rescuing kittens from trees.”

Montparnasse snorts.

“Sometimes it’s about protecting the people you care about, doing things you don’t want to do so they’ll be safe. Making hard choices so they don’t have to.”

“Ok, I get your point.”

Cosette smiles, “I don’t think you do.”  
  
Montparnasse sighs. “If you’re going to keep talking morality at me, I _will_ fall asleep.”

Cosette lays back down, her body warm and solid at his side. 

“You got hurt yesterday,” she says.  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“What do you think would have happened to all of us if you hadn’t come home?”  
  
Montparnasse turns his head to stare at her but she’s looking at the ceiling again. “What?”  
  
“Do you think we’d have just carried on like normal?”  
  
“I-”  
  
“What would we have told Jehan?”  
  
_“Cosette_ - _”_ he’s been trying very hard not to think about that.

“Do you think Éponine would have told Azelma and Gavroche that their father was the one to kill you? How do you think that would have made them feel?”

That’s a low blow and Cosette clearly knows it, because she takes his hand and squeezes apologetically.

“You’re still living like you’ve got nothing to lose,” she says gently. “And I don’t think that’s true any more. I don’t think it has been for a while now, do you?”  
  
Montparnasse can’t answer that, he doesn’t have the words.  
  
“What do you want out of life, Parnasse?”

“Money,” he says automatically and Cosette tuts at him.

“You’re not funny.”  
  
“I’m not joking,” he replies, but he’s thinking about the last time someone asked him that kind of question.  


_“What do you want to be?”_

He’d asked him that, Fauchelevent had, although Montparnasse hadn’t known who he was at the time.

Montparnasse was eighteen and bored, full of that anxious, fizzing energy that screamed for action, for violence, for anything exciting to happen. He’d been working with Patron-Minette for a few years by that time but they didn’t always have use for him, and the nights when he had nothing to do were the worst. He roamed Paris like something feral, looking for trouble.

An old man wandering alone was hardly an interesting challenge, but the night was young and Montparnasse’s pockets were empty. He’d really not expected the man to catch him red-handed and pin him against the wall of the path they were both walking down. He’d fought, obviously, but the guy was ridiculously strong and Montparnasse had been taken by surprise. He’d been even more surprised when the man had started interrogating him.

“What do you want to be?”

“A thief,” he’d snapped. “Obviously.” _A successful thief,_ he’d added in his head, furious with himself for getting caught and with this old man for being the one to do so.

The man had stared at him, holding him in place effortlessly with one hand wrapped in his collar. Montparnasse doesn’t remember much of the speech he’d given next - it was extremely long and he was more preoccupied with trying to wriggle out of his vice-like grip - but he remembers the gist of the thing: a scathing indictment of his character and a dire warning about his future, all mixed in with a sermon on the benefits of an honest day’s work.

None of that had been particularly surprising, not as surprising as when the man _let him go_ and handed his billfold over for good measure.

Montparnasse knows a lucky break when he’s offered one, so he’d not bothered to question it too much, not even when he couldn’t find the damn wallet later. It had been an unsettling encounter and he’d hoped to put it out of his mind entirely, of course that would have been much easier if the guy hadn’t turned out to be Cosette’s adopted father.

When they’d met again by chance - passing in the street in the Latin Quarter, Cosette had called out to him and he’d gone to say hello before he’d noticed who she was with - Fauchelevent had definitely recognised him, but he’d said nothing.

Montparnasse hadn’t mentioned it either, what was there to say? _Oh hello, nice to meet you, didn’t I semi-successfully try to mug you a while back?_  
  
“And what do you do?” Fauchelevent had asked instead, seeming torn between amusement and concern that his daughter was acquainted with such a lowlife.  
  
“I’m an idler,” Montparnasse had grinned and when Cosette laughed, Fauchelevent’s stern face softened.  
  
“We grew up together,” she said, and it softened further.  
  
Montparnasse had fled the conversation as quickly as possible and avoided any situation where they might cross paths again, but Cosette had told him later that Fauchelevent asked after him often, as much as he did Éponine and Azelma and Gavroche. He’d clearly never told her about the mugging and Montparnasse isn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Fauchelevent is an enigma, there’s definitely more there than meets the eye.  
  
Montparnasse suddenly recalls Gavroche’s words about the potential relationship between him and Javert with a shudder.

“Think about it,” Cosette says, in a show of unfortunate timing. “You might as well. I’m going to see if Ponine’s alright.” She squeezes his hand and sits up, smoothing her skirt down as she hops off the bed. Montparnasse watches her leave, pulling the door gently closed behind her.

_What do you want to be?_  
_  
_ Montparnasse thought he knew, back then. _I want to be rich,_ he might as well have told the old man. _I want to be feared, I want to be untouchable. (I don't want to go hungry, I don’t want to be hurt.)_

But that was a long time ago. 

_What do you want?_ Cosette asks, and Montparnasse is not sure that he knows anymore.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so incredibly sorry that this is so late. This chapter is basically half of what was originally going to be chapter 9, it got so long and unwieldy that I had to split it and re-write and then I got terribly blocked and I'm just... so sorry! Thank you so much for being so patient and understanding and a huge thank you to everyone who sent me encouraging and supportive messages. You're all wonderful and I'm so grateful. 
> 
> Translations:  
> J’arrive - I'm coming  
> Putain de merde - fucking hell  
> Hé, t'as une sale gueule, mec - hey, you look like shit, man  
> À plus - see ya


	10. Chapter 10

The worst part of getting stabbed isn’t the pain.  
  
It’s not the sting of sutures or the itch of healing skin. It’s not the mindless boredom that comes with inactivity. It’s not even the scars the wounds leave behind. No, the worst part of getting stabbed, Montparnasse knows, is trying to tape fucking plastic wrap over the dressing so he can shower without getting his stitches wet.

He’s got a floaty square of cellophane in one hand and he’s trying to cut strips of tape with the other, peering into the bathroom mirror and twisting around to see the bandage on his side.

“Need a hand?”  
  
Montparnasse swears as Gavroche pops up behind him, knocking the roll of plastic off the counter top and onto the floor with his elbow.  
  
“Don’t sneak up on me when I’m holding scissors.”  


“Situational awareness,” Gavroche grins, leaning up against the sink. “It’s the most important thing.”

“Fuck off.”  


“If you’re planning on having a shower,” Gavroche says, taking the cellophane from Montparnasse’s hand and easily smoothing it into place, “I wouldn’t. Zelma used up all the hot water this morning.”  
  
Montparnasse’s policy of not letting Azelma and Gavroche see him injured has fallen spectacularly apart in the short time they’ve all been living together under one roof. Sharing the limited space between all four of them, plus Cosette and Marius who have been coming over regularly, has been an exercise in compromise.  
  
It’s been interesting trying to find space for everyone. Montparnasse can’t help but feel bad that he’s not sleeping on the couch so one of the kids can have his bed, but with his shoulder all messed up and a still-healing knife wound it’s not really an option.  
  
“I don’t care if it’s cold, I’m not going another day without washing my hair,” he says, passing Gavroche the strips of tape so he can fix them along the edges of the plastic.  
  
“Your funeral,” Gavroche shrugs, pressing the last one in place. “Oh, and we’re out of orange juice.”  
  
They’re out of most things. Éponine’s been picking up extra shifts at her job, to make up for the time she missed and to try and bring in more money now they’ve got two extra mouths to feed, but keeping food in the fridge longer than five minutes at a time is proving challenging.  
  
“Did you put it on the list?”  
  
“Yep. List says we’re also out of milk, cereal, coffee, bread, toilet paper and tampons.”  
  
Montparnasse swears and ushers Gavroche aside, then he crouches down to open the cabinet under the sink.  
  
“Here,” he un-peels a wad of euro notes from where they’re taped to the back of the pipes, counts out three, then adds another. “Get something for dinner too.”  
  
“D’you have cash hidden all over the apartment?” Gavroche asks, taking the money. “This changes everything.”  
  
“No, I do not. And this is supposed to be for emergencies,” Montparnasse thumbs through what’s left, not enough to make it worth putting it back in the cabinet.  
  
“Orange juice is an emergency?”  
  
“Don’t be dense.”  
  
Gavroche grins and salutes him sarcastically with the money on his way out.  
  
Montparnasse waits to hear the front door slam before he retrieves the second and third wad of notes from underneath the back of the cabinet shelf. There’s not much there, all told, and it was never supposed to be used for groceries, but it’s always made him feel better knowing they had it.  
  
He counts out the crumpled stack of notes next to the sink and tries to estimate how long it’ll last them with Éponine’s pay covering the rent. There’s a text message in his phone drafts he hasn’t been able to bring himself to send, asking Glorieux when he can start doing jobs again. He neatens up the depressingly small pile of bills and resolves to send it after his shower.  


Gavroche was right, the water is cold. Montparnasse gasps and curses as he sticks his head under the spray, bracing his hands against the tiles and gritting his teeth. If it feels a bit like self-flagellation, what with the yellowing bruises throbbing on his shoulder and the uncomfortable clammy sensation of plastic steaming up against his side, well. He might deserve it.  
  
The second worst part of getting stabbed - the part Montparnasse has been resolutely ignoring, as far as possible - is that he’s been lying to Jehan.  
  
Not maliciously. Not even blatantly, they’re lies of omission, more than anything else. Lies of avoidance. Necessary lies.  
  
It’s safer- and easier there’s no denying that- to tell Jehan: “I can’t meet up today because I’m working. I’m busy. I have other plans. I have to watch the kids, and there’s not really space for you to come over as well, sorry.”  
  
All of which sound better than the truth: “I feel disgusting and exhausted and I think there’s still blood in my hair. I can’t lift my arms above my head or bend down to pick anything up and Azelma had to help me put on socks this morning. I stopped taking painkillers because they were making me nauseous, so I’m spending this afternoon lying on the floor of my bedroom swearing creatively at the ceiling.”  
  
Selfish reasons, some of them, but not the most important one.  
  
“If you see me you’ll know something’s wrong, and I can’t lie to your face.”  
  
It’s not like they haven’t been talking. They’re texting as much as ever, and Jehan calls sometimes, in between exams and classes and meeting up with their friends. Talking to them is the only thing keeping Montparnasse sane, most days.  
  
Jehan’s been nothing but understanding and accommodating - which naturally makes him feel even worse about the whole situation - but there’s a hesitancy in their voice when they call, an uncertainty weaved through their words that turns his stomach.  
  
He doesn’t know how to fix it.  
  
Whenever Cosette comes over - which she’s been doing at least once every few days, laden with healthy, vegan meals, since Montparnasse never learned to cook and Éponine is too busy - whenever she’s there she just _looks_ at him, with this unspoken expectation. It makes him itch.  
  
Everything feels uncertain. Babet, Patron-Minette, Thénardier. Gueulemer and Claquesous have been suspiciously quiet. Even Bizarro has barely replied to his probing texts, brushing aside any mention of work and sharing only inane gossip about what’s going on at the Corinthe. _  
  
_ Montparnasse is used to fucking things up, he’s quite proficient at it. He’s not used to taking a back seat while his whole life goes to hell, he usually plays a more proactive role in the disaster. Things have been spinning out of control for a while now, but it’s always been easy to ignore it when there’s something to _do_ , someone to hit or fuck or kill, some way to distract himself and divert the attention of everyone around him.

He’s shivering by the time he gets out of the shower. His fingertips are numb, hands shaky and clumsy as he unlocks his phone to text Glorieux. 

Montparnasse unwraps the cellophane from his side and pokes gingerly at his stitches. A few of them have dissolved already, he picks cautiously at the sharp stray end of one before making himself stop. As he gets dressed he keeps an eye on his phone, sitting on the mess of his unmade bed. 

There are voices in the kitchen, Gavroche must be back from the shops. He can hear Cosette too, and Azelma. The front door buzzes. Footsteps, more voices as it opens and closes. 

Montparnasse dries his hair. Picks out some jeans. Contemplates two t-shirts in slightly different shades of black.  
  
Glorieux doesn’t text back.

The door goes again, more voices, unfamiliar this time and louder. Montparnasse pulls on the second shirt and listens with half an ear. Whoever it is, they’re with Éponine and Cosette, so he’s not too worried.

He sits down on the bed and texts Claquesous, _what are you doing tonight?_  

The last message in their conversation is from him, asking the same thing in slightly different words a few days ago.  
  
When his phone rings in his hand, he almost drops it. But it’s not Claquesous calling, or Glorieux. It’s Jehan.  


“Hey,” they sound surprised when he answers so quickly. “You picked up. I didn’t think- are you busy?”

Montparnasse looks around at how incredibly un-busy he is. Guilt is not an emotion he often entertains, but he’s hard-pressed to explain the sick-sharp feeling in his stomach away as anything else.

“No, it's fine. I always have time to talk to you.” There’s a strange noise on the other end, like either Jehan is squeaking or- “Is that a cat?”

“It is, yeah. I walked Feuilly to work and it's right by the cemetery. I met a very friendly cat while I was exploring and it’s sort of trapped me on a bench, I can’t move. So I thought I’d call you.”

Montparnasse smiles to himself, letting his eyes drift shut as he leans his head back against the wall, “That sounds nice.” 

Jehan hums noncommittally.  
  
“I miss you,” he tells them because the words have been sitting heavily on his tongue for a week and it’s the truth. He wishes they were here, in his bedroom, at his side. Just sitting there, quietly, the way he pictures them on the cemetery bench.

“I miss you too.” Jehan sounds strange.

“Are you alright?”

There's a pause. Montparnasse can hear the wind and the call of birds in the background.

“I think I failed my exams,” Jehan says eventually. “And Feuilly’s moving out.”

“What?”

“Well. He’s moving in with Bahorel? Which is great, I’m really happy for them. But to do that he has to move out, and I feel really selfish, but I’m kind of sad about it.”

“Oh.”

“I know its stupid. I’ll still see him all the time. The same thing happened when R moved out, I just-” they cut themself off. 

“Tell me.”  
  
“I just get scared that people get sick of me,” Jehan says quietly. “And that’s why they always leave.”

“Jehan-”

“No, don’t. I know.” They laugh but it’s all wrong, like that false smile Montparnasse hates. “I’m just having a weird day. It’s fine.”  
  
Jehan’s voice is wobbly, like they’re trying to smile through tears, and it scares him a bit.  
  
“I have to go, my battery’s about to die. But-” they pause. “Can I call you later?”  
  
“Of course,” Montparnasse scowls at the ceiling. “Yeah, call me later.”  
  
“Ok,” Jehan waits like there’s something else they haven’t said yet. “Bye,” they say in the end, hurriedly, before hanging up.

Montparnasse tosses his phone aside and rubs his hands over his face, fists them in his hair and pulls. “Shit.”

He needs to fix this. There’s no real reason to keep avoiding them, not now he can move around without giving anything away. And he wants to see Jehan, wants it the way he knows he shouldn’t want things- like he’d give up anything for them, if they’d only ask.

Éponine’s voice is muffled through the walls as she leads whoever is visiting down the hallway past his bedroom. Montparnasse fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his bedside table and goes to investigate.  
  
The voices are coming from her bedroom, the door is pulled almost closed and Montparnasse reaches to open it.  


“ _Wait_ ,” a voice hisses, “don’t go in there.”  
  
He pauses with his fingers just brushing the handle.  
  
“Why?”  


Marius Pontmercy is leaning out of the kitchen doorway wearing a hunted expression. From the other side of the door Montparnasse can hear Éponine, still talking, words tripping nervously out of her like they do when she’s trying to make a good impression.  
  
“-sleep on the couch, Azelma and Gav are sleeping in here. It’s fine.”  


The voice that replies is older, deeper and, alarmingly, he recognises it. Montparnasse jerks his hand back like he’s been burned.  
  
Behind him Marius waves him frantically away, but he can’t resist peering through the crack between the door and the frame.  
  
The cognitive dissonance of seeing Javert in his home is deeply unnerving.

He’s frowning, as always, but he doesn’t seem to be directing his displeasure at Éponine or the kids. Cosette is stood beside him, with her hand tucked into her father’s elbow, and the three of them are staring down a woman in a black pencil skirt and expensive looking shoes.

Éponine hadn’t mentioned a home inspection when she’d stumbled in from her double shift last night. He’s almost certain she’d have warned him if she’d known about it. If he’d known, he would have found a way not to be there. 

That does seem to be what’s happening though - the woman Javert is trying to murder with his eyebrows is carrying a clipboard in her perfectly manicured hands and her tastefully made up face is wearing a slightly fixed smile.

In Montparnasse’s experience, social services workers don’t dress that well. He looks over at Éponine to see if she’s noticed, but she seems too anxious to take in anything beyond Azelma and Gavroche who are loitering quietly beside her.  
  
“Well, this seems fairly straightforward,” Fauchelevent speaks up, and when he turns to look at Javert, stepping across the doorway and blocking the view, Montparnasse takes the chance to sneak away.

Marius is in the kitchen, chewing distractedly on his sweater cuff.  


“Avoiding the in-laws?” Montparnasse reaches past him to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot that must have been made by Azelma, judging by the thick viscosity of the sludge that oozes into his mug.  
  
Pontmercy pulls his sleeve out of his mouth and gives him a look of absolute horror.  
  
“Don’t say that.”  
  
Montparnasse pours some milk into his sludge and sips at it.  
  
“Is that social services in there with them?”  
  
“Yeah,” Marius glances worriedly at Montparnasse. “Cosette’s father wants them all to move in with him, but Éponine said no,” he explains in a rush. “So he said he’d like to be here for the visit, instead. And then Inspector- I mean. Monsieur Javert,” they both wince, “kind of, invited himself along? I think?”  
  
“Great.” Montparnasse gives up on the coffee and pours it down the sink.  
  
“It’s _weird_ ,” Marius continues, like he’s both imparting a secret and hoping Montparnasse will confirm that the situation is in fact weird.  
  
“Marius, can you come in here for a minute?” Cosette calls from the other room and they both turn to stare down the hall.  
  
“Good luck with that,” Montparnasse claps him roughly on the shoulder. “I’m going out for a smoke.”  
  
Marius looks like he’s ready to beg to be taken along outside too if it means escaping Javert and Fauchelevent, but Montparnasse is not feeling generous enough to invite him.  
  
The apartment is now officially a no-smoking zone.  
  
Compromise: Montparnasse doesn’t smoke around the kids and in return they steal his food, his laptop (Gavroche), his clothes (Azelma), use all the hot water, and wake him up at six in the morning asking how to use the temperamental gas hob to make hot chocolate and brew shitty coffee.  


It’s not so much that he minds, he thinks to himself as he clatters down the stairs, past Enzo’s door that’s leaking hazy wisps of smoke and muffled pop music. Montparnasse could never resent Azelma and Gavroche’s presence in his life or in his home. It’s just that he feels especially useless with them around, since he’s been stuck indoors with nothing to do.

He’s got an unlit cigarette between his lips and his phone in hand as he exits the building, checking his messages.  
  
Glorieux still hasn’t texted back.  


Glorieux _always_ texts back.  
  
It’s this thought, dark and niggling, that’s distracting him enough that he almost walks straight into someone.  
  
The cigarette falls and rolls into a puddle on the edge of the street. Montparnasse has been attempting to cut back, between trying to heal more quickly, being short on cash, having a home full of children, and Jehan, but it still pisses him off.  
  
“Careful,” the person says, and he looks up with a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue that doesn’t make it past his lips, because it’s Magnon.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
Magnon looks at him cooly over the top of her sunglasses. “Waiting for someone.”  
  
Montparnasse has never been quite sure what to make of Magnon. She was one of the first women Babet invited into Patron-Minette, back in the bad old days when they were still trying to carve out a place for themselves in the hierarchy of Paris’ underworld.  


“And you just happen to be waiting in my neighbourhood?”  
  
“Something like that,” she smiles, tucking her hands into her coat pockets.  
  
Magnon has always kept herself apart from the gang, to some degree. She’s a thief and a criminal, like the rest of them, but to her it’s a job - nothing more. Montparnasse isn’t certain he’s ever heard her speak up in meetings about anything personal. She makes Babet look positively sentimental.  
  
The one thing Montparnasse has always appreciated about Magnon is her taste for the finer things in life. She steals to supplement her lifestyle, her clothes are always the finest labels and tailored to fit perfectly, her jewellery is always tasteful, her hair immaculate. Any time she’s struck up any kind of genuine conversation with him, on the rare occasions they’ve been working a job together, it’s usually been about fashion.  
  
“Have you heard from Glorieux?”  
  
If they’re all busy sorting things out, chasing down Thénardier, putting right what Lapointe messed up, that might explain the sudden silence. If that’s true, then Magnon might have been left out of the loop as well, having always kept to the fringes of the gang’s activities.  
  
But, “Not since the meeting,” Magnon replies, and that faint hope is extinguished.  
  
“Which meeting?”  
  
“On Sunday,” Magnon looks at him and Montparnasse can see the exact second when she notices how carefully blank his face is. “Oh.”  
  
“What was the meeting about?”  
  
“The usual,” she stalls. “Business.”  
  
“Business.”  
  
He wants to push, but it won’t do any good. None of them, besides maybe Brujon when he’s had a few drinks, are the type to share more than the bare details of Patron-Minette’s activity, even with each other. If Montparnasse was excluded from a meeting there was a reason for that decision, and they both know it.  
  
“I’m sure if you weren’t injured, they’d have told you.” It’s clear from her tone that Magnon’s not convinced, and from her expression that she knows he’s not either.  
  
“Right.”  
  
Montparnasse pulls another cigarette out of the pack with his teeth and lights it viciously, the metal wheel of his zippo scraping painfully against his thumb.  
  
The front door of the apartment building slams open, rattling against the wall, and the social services officer steps out into the late afternoon sunshine.  
  
She pauses on the doorstep, tucks the clipboard under her arm, and reaches up to let her hair loose from its neat chignon, pulling out two unusually long and sharp looking hairpins.  
  
As she strides towards Montparnasse and Magnon she shakes out her curls and unbuttons the collar of her crisp white shirt.  
  
“What a fiasco. Babet never mentioned that cop would be there.” She leans in and kisses Magnon on the mouth. “Hello my love, sorry I’m late.”  
  
“It’s alright ‘Zelle, I was just catching up with Montparnasse.” Magnon turns back to him, “I don’t think you’ve met my wife?”  
  
Montparnasse knew Magnon had a partner, but she’s never come to any meetings, never formally worked with Patron-Minette as far as he’s aware. From the few mentions he’d heard of her in the past, he’d never pictured a fake child services inspector in Louboutins.  
  
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says with a smile, and that’s… surprising.  
  
“Mamselle-Miss,” she offers Montparnasse her hand and when he just blinks at her, spirits a cigarette out of the pack in his hand. “Light me up, sweetheart?”  
  
Magnon rolls her eyes. “You’re not smoking that.”  
  
“Just the one, sugarplum,” Mamselle's smile widens, “for a job well done?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s all sorted then?” Montparnasse asks, interrupting what he has a horrible feeling is married flirting. “The kids can stay with Éponine?”  
  
“Babet arranged all that last week,” Mamselle confirms, tucking the cigarette behind her ear where it sits at odds with the rest of her polished outfit. “I was only supposed to drop off some paperwork today, I never signed up to convince those two paranoid fogeys that a teenager who works full time could be granted full custody through any actual above-board legal means.”  
  
“Don’t act like you don’t love to improvise,” Magnon plucks the cigarette away, smoothing her wife’s hair back into place and passing it back to Montparnasse.  
  
“I did always want to be an actress,” Mamselle sighs wistfully. “Anyway, tell Babet she owes me for this one.”  
  
“Sure,” Montparnasse hasn’t spoken to Babet since the morning she’d come to see the kids. “Thanks. For helping out.”  
  
“Anything for the children,” Mamselle says airily, “we’ve got two of our own at home, you know.”  
  
Montparnasse blinks at her. “I didn’t know you had kids,” he says to Magnon.  
  
She smiles tightly, “Some of us like to keep our work lives and our family lives separate.”  
  
He really can’t argue with that.  
  
“Come on,” Mamselle tucks her arm through Magnon’s, “I’m hungry, we’re very late for our lunch reservations. We should go quickly, anyway, before the Inspector chases me down to ask more tedious questions.” She thrusts the clipboard at Montparnasse who takes it from her on instinct. “Nice to finally meet you, Montparnasse.”  
  
“I’m sure we’ll see you soon,” Magnon adds over her shoulder as the two walk away.  
  
Montparnasse isn’t entirely convinced about that. He drops his cigarette end and scuffs it out with his shoe, watching the last few strands of unsmoked tobacco unfurl onto the pavement.  
  
Magnon and Mamselle-Miss round the corner of the street, talking quietly, heads close together. Ordinarily he’d assume that Babet must trust her, must trust them both, to involve them in a con job like this. But if Patron-Minette are still scrambling to pull themselves back together after the mess of the past few months it’s always possible that they were just short-handed.  
  
His phone still shows no new messages and Montparnasse, in a moment of irritation and anxiety, types in a number he knows by heart and hits call.  
  
Babet picks up on the first ring.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Hi,” he says, pointlessly. “I just saw Magnon and Mamselle-Miss.”  
  
“Did something happen with the children?”  
  
“No,” Montparnasse frowns, toeing the remains of the cigarette towards it’s fallen friend from earlier.  
  
“Then why are you calling? Is this urgent?”  
  
“Uh-”  
  
“Are you bleeding?” Babet’s voice is clipped and brusque.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Is someone else bleeding?”  
  
“No.” Montparnasse can hear the sulkiness in his tone, “No one told me there was a meeting on Sunday.”  
  
There’s a pause. “Can we have this conversation another time? I’m really quite busy.”  
  
“What conversation?”  
  
“I’m not doing this over the phone, Montparnasse. You know me better than that.”  
  
Montparnasse’s stomach sinks like a stone.  
  
“Are you _firing_ me?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“If this is about Thénardier-”

“It’s about a lot of things,” Babet cuts him off. “And we are not going to talk about it on the phone.”  
  
“Gueulemer and Claquesous-”  


“Don’t think I haven’t spoken to them, they’re not exempt from this. All three of you have caused a hell of a situation for us to put right.”  
  
There’s something horrifyingly infantilising about knowing just how badly he’s fucked things up, just how disappointed she is in him. It makes him want to disappear. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“I have to go,” Babet says. “We’ll sort this out later.”  
  
The call cuts off and Montparnasse stares at his phone.  
  
He’s still holding the clipboard with paperwork on it. Someone has doodled an unflattering but terrifyingly accurate caricature of Javert’s angry face at the top of it.  
  
The thought of going back inside, back into his apartment where the real Javert is waiting, no doubt still wearing his angry face, is distinctly unappealing.  
  
Montparnasse sits down on the curb, shoves his phone in his pocket, and lights another cigarette.  
  
~  
  
The rest of the afternoon doesn’t improve matters much.  
  
He goes to Gueulemer’s, first of all, not bothering to text in advance since everyone seems to be ignoring him. The apartment is empty though, and Montparnasse doesn’t know where Claquesous is staying since he’s been back.  
  
Glorieux’s apartment is similarly quiet, and when he calls in at the Corinthe he finds only Matelote and Gibelote behind the bar. Neither can say where Bizarro is or why she isn’t answering her phone. Laveuve replies with an ever helpful shrug emoji when he asks the group chat what’s going on, everyone else leaving him on read, even Dépêche who usually has something to say.  
  
Montparnasse gives up at this point, and with Jehan’s phone call from earlier playing on his mind, he makes his way over to the sixth arrondissement.  
  
The Café Musain is exactly the sort of place you'd expect to find Jehan and their friends.   
  
Where the Corinthe is sprawling and decaying around the edges, the Musain is compact and modern. It's a popular haunt for students, locals, and tourists alike, being a stone's throw from the Jardin du Luxembourg certainly doesn't hurt. While the exterior is contemporary Parisian chic, the interior is warm and clean with a mixture of original art and old film posters on the walls, fresh flowers on the tables along with flyers advertising event nights, open mic, and poetry readings, and, usually, attentive and friendly staff members offering fresh food and quality coffee.  
  
This evening finds Grantaire lounging behind the counter in the casual black-jeans-white-t-shirt uniform of hipster baristas across the city, although with a few more chocolate powder stains than Louison usually wears, the apron jauntily knotted around his waist is probably the cleanest part of him. He seems utterly oblivious to his surroundings, ignoring the jingle of the bell above the door as Montparnasse enters.  
  
“I see you’ve found your true calling.”  
  
“Your sarcasm is noted and unappreciated,” Grantaire doesn’t look up from his phone even when being directly spoken to, and Montparnasse takes advantage of that to steal a biscotti from the basket beside the cash register.  
  
“There’s at least five people outside waiting for service,” he says, through a mouthful of almond and chocolate.  
  
“If you sit outside, you wait at the waiter’s leisure,” Grantaire finally puts his phone in his apron pocket. “That’s the unwritten rule.”  
  
“Is that right.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s in the handbook. Right after ‘Pretend to be Selectively Monolingual’ and ‘Don’t Let People Steal from the Café’.”

Montparnasse grins. “Does it say anything in the handbook about free espresso for dear friends?”  
  
“It says don’t push your luck,” Grantaire leans his elbows on the counter and smirks back at him. “You here to see Jehan?”  
  
“Are they here?”  
  
“In the back,” he nods towards the large bench tables at the far end of the café. “You’re brave, coming here on a Thursday.”  
  
“That’s one word for it,” Montparnasse grimaces.  
  
“Jehan said you’ve been busy,” it’s a leading question and from anyone else Montparnasse would expect an undertone of judgement, but this is Grantaire and he just seems sympathetically curious. “The shit with Éponine’s family?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well,” Grantaire says, when it’s clear he’s not going to elaborate, “you’ve got about half an hour before the rest of them descend.”  
  
“Like carrion?” Montparnasse licks biscotti crumbs off his thumb and raises an eyebrow.  
  
Grantaire’s face darkens in the specific way it does when his head is full of Enjolras, “I was thinking of something more angelic, but sure.”  
  
“Should I even ask?”  
  
“I wouldn’t. He’s thrilled to be rid of me, as you can well imagine. Wasn’t happy to hear I’d still be in the building, but you can’t have everything.”  
  
“I thought he’d be pleased you found a new job, after all that.”  
  
“Yeah,” Grantaire flicks a few stray grains of sugar off the counter. “So did I.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But nothing,” he heaves himself back upright and shrugs. “He is as inscrutable as always.”  
  
Montparnasse frowns and Grantaire makes shooing motions at him. “Go on, go attend to your love. They’re in a bad way today, I caught a snippet on the way in. Something about Troilus and Criseyde and the ultimate futility of all things, and something else about palaeography, which apparently involves neither dinosaurs nor erotica, to my great disappointment.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Who knows, with medievalists it could be anything.”  
  
The Musain was divided once into two parts, upstairs and down, but at some point it had been gutted and remodelled; the front area near the counter is open and sunny beneath the full length windows, with a comfortable array of round tables littering the old wooden floorboards, while the back part of the room opens up into a mezzanine with long communal tables and walls lined with bookshelves bearing a variety of literature, potted succulents and spider plants.  
  
The café is relatively busy, the lunch rush has long passed but there are the ever-present tourists with their avocado tartines and lattes and a few other groups with drinks. Sitting in the middle of the biggest table, set in the farthest corner, with cushion-strewn bench seats on one side and stools on the other, is Jehan.  
  
They haven’t noticed Montparnasse, possibly because the café is bustling with chatter and laughter and melodic indie music playing on the radio, possibly because they’re sitting slumped over, face down on the tabletop. They’re wearing Montparnasse’s t-shirt underneath an ugly mustard coloured cardigan and Joly is sitting opposite them, patting the top of their head ineffectually.

The two look to have been there a while, judging by the empty plates on one side of them and Jehan’s bag leaking books and scraps of paper on the other.  


“What are your symptoms?” Joly asks as Montparnasse climbs the stairs.  
  
“Headache,” Jehan is muffled where their head is pillowed on their arms. “Bad. Bad headache.”  
  
Joly hums and frowns at their phone screen. “Could be a brain tumour,” they suggest helpfully.  
  
“Excellent,” Jehan mutters, “I hope it kills me in my sleep tonight, so I don’t have to retake this fucking exam at all.”  
  
“That’s a little morbid, darling,” Montparnasse says, nodding a hello to Joly.  
  
Jehan sits up with a start, knocking a mostly empty jar of Nutella off the table with their elbow. Montparnasse catches it effortlessly and Jehan stares up at him, crumbs clinging to their cheek, reading glasses slipping down their nose, hair straggling out of the messy knot they’ve tied it up in.  
  
“Hello,” Montparnasse feels his smile go embarrassingly affectionate.  


“I’ve only slept about four hours in the past two days,” Jehan says eventually, “so I’m not entirely convinced that you’re real.”  
  
“I‘m real,” Montparnasse sets the Nutella down safely among the mess in the middle of the table, noting the multiple empty coffee cups lined up on Jehan’s side.  
  
“Good.” Jehan catches hold of the front of his shirt and pulls him down into a fierce kiss. The angle makes his remaining stitches pull uncomfortably and Jehan’s glasses are digging into his nose, but their lips are soft and they taste like chocolate and hazelnut.  
  
“Not that I’m complaining, because I’m really not,” they say when they pull away, “but what are you doing here?”  
  
“I wanted to see you,” Montparnasse slides onto the bench seat beside them and brushes his thumb over Jehan’s cheekbone, dislodging the stray pastry flake. “Why are we praying for death?”  
  
“Oh,” Jehan leans into his touch. “I hate academia,” they say with a sigh, “so very much.”  
  
“You might be in the wrong field then, I’m afraid.”  
  
“I’m going to burn down another school,” they mutter. “See if I don’t.”  
  
“Maybe let’s leave the felonies until after you’ve gotten your results,” Montparnasse suggests as Joly coughs pointedly in the background.  
  
“Fine,” Jehan looks up at him through their eyelashes. “Kiss me again?”  
  
He does.  
  
“Are you really here just to see me?” they ask shyly when they part, and Montparnasse is at once extremely glad that he came and furious with himself for leaving it this long.  
  
“I can go if you’re busy?” he teases and Jehan pouts and catches his hand in theirs.  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Sorry for interrupting your, uh,” he makes a vague gesture towards Joly’s phone still in their hand. “Web MD dinner date?”  
  
“It’s _probably_ just exam fatigue,” Joly says, putting the phone down with a rueful smile. “And a little bit of sleep deprivation. And too much caffeine. And no proper food-”  
  
“Okay, yes, thank you. I’ll be fine,” Jehan huffs, slumping against Montparnasse’s shoulder. “So much for tea and sympathy.”  
  
“I offered to get you tea,” Joly says cheerfully, “chamomile, remember? You told me to fuck off.”  
  
“And I apologised for that,” Jehan tilts their head until their hair falls across their cheeks, Montparnasse suspects they’re blushing. “It’s been a long day.”  
  
“I know,” Joly says kindly, “but it does seem to be improving, at least.”  
  
After Grantaire, Montparnasse decides, Joly is his favourite of Jehan’s friends. Éponine and Cosette don’t count, naturally. They were his friends first.  
  
“You didn’t have to come all this way,” Jehan tells him, “I’m sorry if I freaked you out earlier.”  
  
“You didn’t,” Montparnasse assures, although they had, a little bit. “What happened with your exam?”  


“I don’t know,” Jehan says quietly, nudging Montparnasse’s jaw with the tip of their nose, “I don’t even know why I’m doing this course any more. I think I hate it.”  
  
“So quit,” Montparnasse says and they sigh again, resting their cheek against his.  
  
“What else would I do?”  
  
“Whatever you want.”  
  
“I wish,” Jehan says, “I wish I could just write and live off writing. I wish…” they trail off and Montparnasse stays silent, fingers rubbing gently at the base of their neck.  
  
Joly has been politely ignoring them, but they perk up when they spot Courfeyrac and Combeferre entering the café with Enjolras trailing behind him.  
  
Combeferre has his nose buried in an actual newspaper, Montparnasse wasn’t aware that anyone under the age of fifty still got their news from non-technological means. He navigates the café floor with practiced ease, dodging around tables and chairs and walking up the steps without looking up from what he’s reading.  
  
“Evening, everyone,” he sits down beside Joly and only then does a double take, looking up at Montparnasse. “Oh, hello.”  
  
“Are you staying for the meeting?” Jehan asks with both of their arms wrapped tightly around one of Montparnasse’s and their chin tucked into his shoulder.  
  
“I hadn’t planned to.”  
  
Combeferre glances at Jehan’s death grip on him and says, “You’d be very welcome.”  
  
“What’s that?” Enjolras has arrived at their table wearing a perturbed expression. He’s left his cup of coffee behind on the counter and Grantaire is staring after him looking vexed.  


“Montparnasse is coming to the meeting this evening,” Joly answers, before quickly ducking behind Combeferre’s newspaper.  
  
“Oh,” Enjolras blinks at him.  
  
“Well, you’re a man down, after all,” Montparnasse nods towards Grantaire who is on his way over, carrying Enjolras’s abandoned drink.  
  
Courfeyrac remains at the counter, bottle of water in one hand, money to pay still in the other.  
  
“It’ll be nice,” Jehan says in a cheerfully firm tone. “We’ve barely seen each other lately.”  
  
Enjolras attempts a smile, “Of course.”  
  
Grantaire edges towards the table, giving Enjolras an almost comically wide berth. “You forgot this,” he sets the cup down without making eye contact and turns to walk away.  
  
“Wait,” Enjolras blurts and Grantaire pauses. “Um.”  
  
Everyone sitting at the table seems to hold their breath collectively.  


“They’re having the weirdest fight,” Jehan murmurs in Montparnasse’s ear, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Only it’s not really a fight, because they’re incapable of speaking to one another.”  
  
Grantaire raises one eyebrow. “Can I get you something else?”  
  
“Idiots,” Jehan sighs, gently face planting into his shoulder.  
  
“Um,” Enjolras says again and Montparnasse has to bite the inside of his cheek so he won’t grimace at how awkward the situation has rapidly become.  
  
Grantaire shifts uncomfortably in place as Enjolras hesitates. Combeferre is hiding behind his reclaimed newspaper, Joly is trying to sink underneath the table beside him, and Jehan is staring intently at the pair of them like they can _will_ them into talking about their feelings.  
  
Montparnasse leans back in his chair, dislodging Jehan momentarily. “I’ll have that espresso if you’re taking orders.”

Grantaire gives him a dirty look and leaves without saying anything. Courfeyrac meets him halfway and pointedly counts a handful of coins out into his apron pocket.  
  
“Well,” Joly says, trailing off when they all turn and look at them. “Never mind.”  
  
Courfeyrac arrives then and manages to hug everyone hello, including Jehan, without acknowledging even once that Montparnasse is also sitting with them. He’s almost impressed.  
  
He had planned to leave before the meeting started, listening to Enjolras talk about social justice will never be high on Montparnasse’s preferred ways to spend an evening. But Jehan is holding his hand beneath the table - absentmindedly tracing the shape of his fingers, the scarred dips between his knuckles - and pulling away from them seems impossible.  
  
“You will stay, won’t you?” they ask quietly, like they can sense his restlessness.  
  
Enjolras is watching them from his seat at the head of the table. Montparnasse wonders what they’ve said to Jehan about their relationship, how hard Jehan’s had to fight to defend him.

“Of course,” he smiles, squashing the unworthy feeling that bubbles up at their carefully hidden insecurity.  
  
Grantaire was right, with Enjolras and his lieutenants in situ, the rest of the group trickle slowly but surely into the Musain as well. Cosette arrives next, in a flurry of hugs and smiles, Pontmercy stumbling after her.  
  
“How are Azelma and Gavroche doing?” Courfeyrac asks, standing up to let them squeeze by to the empty side of the table.  
  
“They’re fine,” Cosette smiles, brushing a kiss to his cheek as she passes him. “We’ve just come from dinner together, my father’s watching movies with them tonight.”  
  
Montparnasse catches Marius’ eye, he looks even more shaken than he had that morning.  
  
“Dinner?” he asks as the two of them sit down.  
  
Éponine appears with a tray of drinks and, before she can set it down, Marius takes his glass of wine and drains half of it in one swallow.  
  
“ _Family_ dinner,” he confirms in a grim undertone.  
  
Montparnasse tries to imagine eating a meal with Javert and Fauchelevent watching his every move and makes the grudging decision to be nicer to Pontmercy. Occasionally. When he deserves it.  
  
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Éponine plonks herself down into the small space on the bench next to Montparnasse, squashing Jehan up against Cosette in the process.  
  
“Yeah, well. I didn’t expect to see Javert in our house this morning,” he replies, hands steadying Jehan’s waist as they settle themself in his lap. “Comfortable there?”  
  
“Very,” Jehan grins, leaning back to kiss him on the cheek.  
  
“Are they always like this? Courfeyrac complains.  


“Yes,” Marius, Cosette and Éponine answer as one, in perfectly synchronised unison.

“Spooky,” Joly whispers to Combeferre, who snickers softly.  
  
“Sorry about Javert,” Éponine says quietly. “I should have told you. I was just so stressed about the whole thing, it slipped my mind.”  
  
Montparnasse wants to ask about Mamselle-Miss, if Éponine had realised what was really going on that morning, but he can’t with Les Amis sitting close enough to overhear. He just nudges her with his shoulder instead and steals a sip of her wine.  
  
“Bahorel’s on his way,” Courfeyrac announces to the table and Jehan looks up.  
  
“Feuilly’s going to be late, he’s covering the end of someone’s shift,” they add.

Montparnasse wraps his arms more firmly around their waist and they sink back into him.

Enjolras stands abruptly. “I need… coffee,” he strides off towards where Grantaire is hiding behind the counter, pretending to do something with a stack of take-away cups.  
  
Montparnasse waits until Enjolras has descended the steps before stealing his untouched latte. “Ugh,” he chokes, passing it to Jehan. “Is that soy?”  
  
“Mm,” Jehan closes their eyes and sips happily at the drink.  
  
“You’ve had more than enough,” Joly takes the cup without looking up from their phone and passes it off to Combeferre, who sniffs at it curiously.  
  
As Montparnasse watches, Grantaire drops the sleeve of cups all over the floor and crouches down to pick them up. Enjolras comes around the counter to help and Grantaire stands up too fast, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the steam wand, to wave him back around to the customer-appropriate side.  
  
“It’s like an actual farce,” he says to Jehan who just shakes their head despairingly.  
  
“Oh my god!” Joly sits bolt upright in their chair and then immediately sinks back down in it again. “Oh my god, it’s her.”  
  
“Who?” Combeferre asks looking up from the latte.  
  
“ _Her_ ,” Joly hisses, eyes wide and fervent. “The barmaid from the Corinthe. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Montparnasse follows their gaze back across the room, to where Enjolras is now waiting with his arms folded while Grantaire ignores him to talk with- “Chetta?”  
  
Joly’s eyes widen even further, “You know her?”

“Musichetta? Sure.” Joly is practically quivering in their seat, and since Montparnasse is feelingbenevolent towards them he adds, “Do you want me to introduce you?”  
  
“Yes!” Joly says, effusive with delight. “Wait. No,” they pick their phone up off the table. “I have to text Bossuet.”  
  
“Poly negotiations?” Courfeyrac asks, looking back from where Enjolras is faking interest in the display of pastries and cakes.  
  
“Hm? Oh, no, he’s just better at flirting than me.”  
  
“This should be interesting,” Montparnasse says under his breath and Éponine, visibly restraining herself, pokes him gently in the ribs with her bony fingers.  
  
Musichetta quickly gives up on trying to converse with Grantaire while Enjolras is lurking distractingly by her side. When she looks over they all pretend somewhat uselessly that they weren’t just staring, and Joly makes a breathless, strangled sound as she heads their way.  
  
“Breathe,” Jehan suggests and Joly pulls a sour face.  
  
“Hypocrite.”  
  
Musichetta is intimidatingly attractive, even on her off days - which are essentially non-existent - so Montparnasse can’t say he really blames Joly for being nervous.  
  
“Hey, Éponine. Montparnasse,” she greets them, looking over the table. “People I don’t know.”  
  
Jehan waves a cheery hello and her eyes linger on Montparnasse’s arms around their waist.  


“Evening, Chetta. Checking up on the puppy?”  
  
Musichetta gives him a withering look. “Just making sure he hasn’t burned the place down yet.”  
  
“Oh, you know Grantaire?” Joly blurts out, ignoring their phone as it buzzes in their hand.  
  
Musichetta turns her narrowed eyes on them, and Montparnasse briefly considers the ways in which this might go even worse than the conversation Enjolras and Grantaire are barely having on the other side of the room. But then she smiles.  
  
“I do,” she says. “Although most days I wish I didn’t. I’m Musichetta, who’re you?”  
  
“Me too,” Joly stammers, “I mean, I know R. Not- I’m Joly. Hi! Do you want to sit down?” they all but shove Courfeyrac out of his seat and he huffs but slides obligingly down the table.  
  
Musichetta takes the seat graciously and Joly seems to run out of words, too awestruck at being up close with what Montparnasse has to assume is a long time crush.  
  
“Your phone’s beeping,” Marius points out helpfully, and Joly nearly drops it as they go to check what seems like six or so texts from Bossuet.  
  
“Bit different to your usual social gatherings, n'est-ce pas?” Éponine says to Montparnasse and he smirks at her.  
  
Jehan is recounting their exam angst to Combeferre, who seems totally unfazed at talking to them while they’re still sitting in Montparnasse’s lap. Courfeyrac and Pontmercy are leaning across the table, looking at something on Marius’ phone. Joly has found their voice again and Musichetta seems in no hurry to leave, despite them recounting what seems to be a story about a night at the bar and a mishap with a pair of trousers.

Enjolras returns, still without a drink, but with Bahorel and Bossuet, who switches seats with Combeferre in some kind of unspoken agreement to take the chair beside Joly, and is quickly drawn into the conversation with Musichetta as well.  
  
Finally, Feuilly arrives - late, breathless, and apologetic - and like some unspoken cue has been called, the table settles down.  
  
The meeting isn’t what Montparnasse expected.  


He sits quietly and listens, mostly. It’s surprisingly easy not to heckle, and surprisingly difficult to tune Enjolras out when what he’s saying makes a relative amount of sense.  
  
Occasionally Éponine’s mouth twitches the way it does when she’s trying not to say something she shouldn’t, but Montparnasse resists the urge to prod her into speaking up.  
  
He’d like to imagine Enjolras would extend him the same courtesy, but the thought of him sitting politely aside while Patron-Minette moves bodies or breaks fingers is too amusing and Montparnasse has to muffle a laugh in Jehan’s shoulder.  
  
“What’s funny about gentrification?” they ask and he smiles against their neck.  
  
“Nothing.”

More interesting than listening to Enjolras talk, is watching Grantaire watch Enjolras talk. Without the eyes of the group on him he’s not playing up for attention like Montparnasse has seen him do in the past, instead he just stares. More than one customer has to physically stand between him and Enjolras to get his attention to order their drinks, and the café tables are littered with uncollected empty cups.  
  
Grantaire looks tired when he thinks no one is paying attention, and slightly bereft. As Montparnasse watches he startles and turns away, finally grabbing a tray to go clear the floor.  
  
Enjolras has paused, mid-sentence. He’s frowning, and he’s watching Grantaire. After a second or two Courfeyrac clears his throat and he blinks, fumbling with the print out of statistics he’d been reading from.

Montparnasse tucks his nose behind Jehan’s ear, where they smell like warm skin and jasmine and ponders.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry that it's taken me this long to update, so much love to all of you for being so patient and kind and supportive while I battled to get this done. This chapter is shorter than I'd planned, and it's a bit of a strange interlude, but I hope you enjoy it anyway ❤︎


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic scenes including explicit sexual content and violence. Check the updated tags and see the end note for more details if you want to skip the smut (slight spoilers).

The group lingers in the café once the discussions have wrapped up. 

It was a shorter meeting than usual but Jehan’s not the only one with exams and Les Amis are currently between projects. Montparnasse listens with half an ear as Bossuet explains all this to Musichetta, who is still sitting between him and Joly, looking enchanted despite herself.

Cosette, Éponine, and Marius are the first to leave since they have Azelma and Gavroche at home waiting for them. 

“Do you have to go as well?” Jehan asks Montparnasse, as they say their goodbyes.  
  
“No,” he says, turning away from Éponine’s ever-watchful eyes. “I thought I might walk you home.”

Jehan blinks drowsily at him. “But I have to take the metro.”

“I know,” Montparnasse smiles. “It’s the sentiment of the thing.”  
  
“I’m tired,” Jehan slumps back against his chest. “Don’t tease me. You can walk me to Rennes if you want?”  
  
“To Rennes?” Montparnasse readjusts his arm around their waist. “Well then, we’re going the same direction anyway.”

“I think Feuilly’s going home with Bahorel,” Jehan says, waving a distracted farewell at Cosette across the table.

“Smooth,” Joly cuts in, winking at them both.

“Oh, no.” Jehan blushes. “I just meant, the company would be nice.”

“I bet it would,” Bossuet wiggles his eyebrows and Musichetta snorts inelegantly.

“Don’t give him too much credit.”

“You injure me, Chetta.”

“I could,” she threatens with a sharp smile, and Joly’s heart-eyes intensify.

“Shall we go?” Montparnasse asks, ignoring the three of them in favour of Jehan who is close to nodding off against his shoulder. “I think we need to get you to bed.”

A flurry of sniggers erupts on the other side of the table.

“Yes,” Jehan says, gathering their things and sliding off of Montparnasse’s lap. “I’m just going to say goodbye to Grantaire. I think he’s hiding in the kitchen.”

“I’ll meet you outside.”

Montparnasse nods a farewell to Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel, and beats a hasty retreat away from Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta, who appear to be combining their powers for evil.

Grantaire has abandoned the counter entirely and when he passes Courfeyrac is making himself a drink at the coffee machine, clearly having given up hope of his return.

Outside a trickle of exhausted-looking Sorbonne students stumble past the café as Montparnasse waits, hands in his pockets, feeling vaguely discomforted without the alibi of a cigarette in hand to excuse his loitering.

A woman passes with an armful of shopping and her dachshund pauses to sniff at Montparnasse’s ankles. He ignores it, the extendable leash reeling out as its owner strides ahead until it tilts its head and cocks its leg against the wall directly next to his feet and he practically leaps out of the way. Montparnasse glares after the dog’s owner and moves around to the other side of the café, nearly running into Jehan as they exit through the side entrance.

“Ready to go?”  
  
“I couldn’t find R,” Jehan says, looking slightly worried.  
  
“I’m sure he won’t hold it against you.”  
  
“No, I know. But I also can’t find Enjolras.”  
  
At that moment, almost as if they’d planned it, raised voices echo from the back of the Musain.

_“-everything always a joke to you?”_

It’s Enjolras, there’s no mistaking that exasperated tone of voice. Jehan moves to investigate and Montparnasse halts them with a cautioning hand on their arm.

“Wait a minute.” He walks along to the car parked nearest the corner and squints into the wing mirror, trying to see down the alleyway. He’s just caught a glimpse of wild blond hair when Jehan plasters themself against his back.

“What’s happening?” they lean up to whisper in his ear and he shivers at the warmth of their breath.

Montparnasse sighs. “I was trying to be stealthy.”  
  
“Come on, let’s just look.” Jehan tugs him over to the side of the building and they both peer down the narrow side street.

Enjolras has his arms crossed, as usual. His hair’s rumpled like he’s been running his hands through it, also as usual, but there’s an unusually insecure expression on his face.

“I would never joke about that.” Grantaire is stood opposite him, face twisting miserably like the words he speaks are lacerating him on the way out.  
  
“They’re arguing,” Montparnasse says quietly.

Jehan sighs. “Of course they are.”

Montparnasse feels a strange surge of deja-vu and he realises it’s been months since the last time he and Jehan were pressed together like this, watching Grantaire and Enjolras utterly fail to communicate.

“Do you think we should interrupt?” he asks, distracted by the feeling of Jehan’s body warm against his own, the inches of empty space he’d been so aware of before erased entirely, replaced with the casual connection that he’s been taking entirely for granted.  
  
“Oh!” Jehan exclaims under their breath. “No, I don’t think we should.”

When Montparnasse looks up Grantaire has Enjolras pushed up against the wall, one hand in his hair the other cupping his neck, and they’re kissing passionately.

“Finally,” Jehan breathes and he bites back a laugh.

As they watch, Enjolras clutches at Grantaire’s shoulders and makes a needy sound that echoes in the quiet of the street.  
  
“We should go,” Montparnasse nudges Jehan. “Come on, let’s leave them to it.”

“Does it bother you?” Jehan asks as they walk away. “Seeing them together?”

“Why would it?”

Jehan looks uncertain but they forge bravely ahead. “R said the two of you stopped seeing each other because he had feelings for Enjolras.” They don't mention if Grantaire said it was also because Montparnasse had feelings for him.

Montparnasse steers them down the street towards the entrance to the Jardin du Luxembourg and thinks about how to answer.

“Before I was with R, I never thought I’d have a real relationship. Never even considered it. When we were together… We were a bad match. He was already half in love with Enjolras when we met and I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. But we had each other, for a while, and that was more than I thought I’d ever get.”

Jehan watches him as they enter the park, making their way arm in arm down the tree-lined promenade.

“No, it doesn't bother me. Not when it means he could be happy. And those two,” he shakes his head. “Can you imagine trying to come between that?”

He doesn’t say: how could it bother me, when you’re at my side? How could I think of anyone else, when I have you? But Jehan smiles and he wonders if some of it shows on his face.  
  
Together they walk down the terrace steps to the basin and Jehan immediately hops up onto the thin rim of paving slabs that circle the edge of the pool.  
  
“If you fall in, I’m not coming after you,” Montparnasse warns, taking hold of their elbow when they rest a balancing hand on his shoulder.  
  
Despite the relatively late hour and the cool weather there are still people in the gardens. A huddle of teenagers with backpacks are sitting on the metal chairs watching Jehan’s progress, and two older women with dogs are making their way around the other side of the water closer to the palace.

“You know, their names match,” Jehan tells him like they’re imparting a particularly juicy secret.

“I did know that,” Montparnasse says. “Does Enjolras?”  
  
“I suspect he does. Courfeyrac’s family are Catholic too, and he’s made plenty of Michaël, Gabriel, Raphaël jokes over the years.”

“Michaël?”

“Combeferre.”

Montparnasse laughs and Jehan must sense the scorn in it because they look down at him briefly. “You have very little room to talk, Lucien Lightbringer.”

“Oh, don’t. I was hoping no one had told you that.”

“Your name?” Jehan asks, sounding highly amused.

“It’s barely my name at this point.”

“Lucien,” Jehan tests the syllables on their tongue and almost immediately wrinkles their nose.

“No?” Montparnasse asks with a smile.

“Montparnasse suits you better. Parnasse,” they shape the word carefully. “Parnassus. Another mountain.”

“No saints this time,” Montparnasse says, struck with the memory of Jehan subdued and melancholy at his side. “No martyrs.”

“Gods,” Jehan counters. “Muses.”

They’re watching their feet, lips curled in contentment as they dance along the edge of the basin. The last of the evening sunlight catches in their hair and eyelashes, the hand not clasping his shoulder is outstretched, casting long shadows across the water. Montparnasse wants to fix this moment in his memory, to inscribe it there with so much permanence that it can never fade.

Jehan jumps back down onto the path, gravel scattering beneath their sneakers.

“How did you end up named for a whole neighbourhood?”

Montparnasse laughs again. “Most people assume it’s for the cemetery.”

Jehan shakes their head, taking Montparnasse’s hand and swinging it as they make their way towards the second set of steps that lead back up to the promenade. 

“You’re too alive for only that.”

Not always, Montparnasse wants to protest. Not until recently.

“I was a foundling,” he says lightly, instead. “Which is much less romantic than it sounds.”

“R told me that as well,” Jehan confirms, their voice hushed like they’re not sure if he’ll be unhappy about it.   
  
“Ah, yes. I forgot you interrogated him too.” Montparnasse grins back over his shoulder when they pause on a lower step.  
  
“I didn’t _interrogate_ anyone,” Jehan faux-pouts.  
  
“Right,” Montparnasse drawls. “Feuilly and Grantaire just struck up those conversations about me of their own accord, I suppose?  
  
“I only wanted to know if you might like me, I wasn't expecting a mysterious origin story. You don’t have to talk about it if you don't feel comfortable,” they add.

“I don’t mind,” Montparnasse squeezes their fingers. “It was a long time ago.”  
  
They reach the top of the steps and Jehan steps in close to him, slides their free arm around his waist.  
  
“They didn’t leave me with a last name, that would have been too easy to trace. It was just over there,” he turns them both around and gestures south, back across the gardens. “At Cochin. I was nearly Lucien Cochin, but someone took pity on me and named me for the city instead.”

“A much better fit,” Jehan says. “Maybe it was a muse.”

“You think so?”

 _“Un gamin d'Paris, c'est tout un poème,”_ Jehan hums, teasing.

Montparnasse half groans a laugh. “That’s dreadful.”

“Thank you,” Jehan grins.

The wind picks up as they wander past the empty tennis courts, rustling the leaves on the horse chestnut trees. Montparnasse subtly steers Jehan away from what is unmistakably a minor drug deal happening on a nearby bench and they trustingly allow themself to be guided along, eyes fixed upwards to watch the floral candles sway on the branches overhead.

As Jehan watches the flowers, Montparnasse watches them, only the distant sound of traffic and faint conversations nearby disturbing the companionable quiet that’s fallen between them.

Eventually, Jehan notices the weight of his gaze on them and looks over. “What?”

“I really want to kiss you,” Montparnasse says, because it’s the closest translation he can find for how he feels about them in that moment.   
  
“Oh,” Jehan says happily. “We can do that.”  
  
Montparnasse backs them over to the side of the path and kisses them, tries not to lose himself too much in it and fails, thinks fleetingly that if they were alone in the gardens with no-one around but the birds and the sky overhead he’d have Jehan up against a tree- or, no, the grass, because the bark is too rough- with the dew damp on their skin and their hair tangled with daisies.  
  
“I’m glad you came this evening,” Jehan says when they part. “Thank you for staying.”

“It wasn’t as awful as I expected,” Montparnasse admits. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately.”

“That’s alright,” Jehan looks up at him and smiles. “You’re here now.”

“Are you feeling better?” Montparnasse asks, brushing a thumb gently against Jehan’s temple. “How’s your headache?”

“I always feel better when I’m with you,” Jehan says looking into his eyes, and he kisses them again.

Walking through the tall metal gates feels like stepping back into the real world. The gardens seem to exist in a timeless bubble, particularly when they’re quiet as they often are in the evenings. Montparnasse suspects the illusion is caused in part by all that clear sky. It’s beautiful, even with the presence of the tower he shares a name with looming in the distance like a slick black monolith of modernism.

They make their way up Rue Fleurus towards the metro station and Jehan points out an antique bookstore they love, then laughs aloud when they pass a particular restaurant on the corner of the street.

“Bread and Roses,” they explain, leaning into Montparnasse’s side with a smile. “Grantaire used to joke that he’d bring Enjolras here on their first date.”

“Maybe now he will.”

“I doubt it,” Jehan says, resting their head on Montparnasse’s shoulder as they walk. “He knows Enjolras better than that.”  
  
“R’s a good cook,” Montparnasse says. “Maybe they won’t go out at all.”  
  
“They looked ready to skip the whole date part entirely.”

“It’s fitting that it happened there,” Montparnasse says with false gravitas. “In the back alley behind the Musain, scene of so many romantic trysts.”

“You walked in on them this time,” Jehan smirks. “Or you might have done if we’d been a few minutes later.”  
  
“Don’t put that image in my head,” Montparnasse tries to push Jehan playfully and they giggle as they cling to him, pulling him along the pavement.

“Do you think they’ll make it work?” Jehan asks more seriously as they cross onto the main boulevard. “There’s a reason they’ve been circling around this for so long. Do you think two people who are that different can be happy together?”

“Well, they do say opposites attract,” Montparnasse offers and Jehan makes a noise of wordless agreement. “I think if they can finally be honest with each other about things they stand a good chance.”

“I hope you’re right,” Jehan says, and Montparnasse finds he does too.

It’s busy at Rennes, the tail end of commuters heading home colliding with people on their way out for dinner and drinks. When the train arrives there aren’t any free seats, but Montparnasse claims a corner at the back of the carriage, lounging indolently against the wall and pulling Jehan in against his front where they immediately tuck their head under his chin and wrap their arms around his waist.

The journey to get up to Montmartre takes roughly twenty minutes. Jehan falls asleep in five.

Montparnasse braces them both against the twists and turns of the track, warning away anyone who drifts too close with a dark look. Jehan breathes slow and even against his neck and he wants to keep them like this, close and safe and warm. He would ride the train to the end of the line and back again if it meant they could get some rest.

At Abbesses Jehan stirs and smiles sleepily before they even open their eyes. “I thought I dreamed you,” they mumble into his shirt.

Montparnasse swallows against the wave of fierce tenderness that fills his chest as he watches them come back to themself.

“What a nightmare,” he jokes. “You’re nearly home, you can sleep more there.”

Jehan makes a disgruntled noise and steps back to check the station map. “I’m not that tired.”

Their glasses are slightly crooked, and their hair is staticky on one side where they were slumped against him, and Montparnasse is in love with them.

“Of course not,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage when his heart is trying to crawl out through his ribcage. “Four and a quarter hours in two days is more than enough.”

Jehan rolls their eyes and takes his hand as the train pulls into Lamarck-Caulaincourt and he allows himself to be lead along the platform and into the lift.

Montparnasse has always thought of love as a selfish thing. He’s seen what it makes people do, the sins they commit in its name. Love seems to him to be the absolute worst kind of indulgence: the sort that doesn’t cost you anything but could lose you everything.

His feelings for Jehan don’t feel selfish. Montparnasse has never been any good at denying himself the things he desires - and there is no question that he wants Jehan, more than anything he’s ever wanted before - but rather than covetous, he feels as if he’s spilling over with an excess of devotion. He wants to give Jehan the world. He wants to make every moment of their life going forward as shiningly perfect as he feels when they smile at him.

It should be terrifying, but he feels oddly calm. Now that he knows, it seems obvious. He’s never been in love before, but then he’s never known anyone like Jehan before. Jehan is a fixed point, is true north, is the beating of his heart in his chest. All the other parts of his life might be falling apart at the seams, but Jehan, laughing in the Spring sunshine, kissing him in the hushed dark of his bedroom. Jehan, quoting poetry and shuffling cards. Jehan, tired and beautiful under the fluorescent metro station lights - Jehan is everything that matters.

 _This_ , Montparnasse thinks. This is what Cosette was trying to tell him.

~

The sun is setting when they emerge from the metro, sinking beneath the skyline and painting everything pink and gold.

Jehan’s apartment is only a short walk from the station and Montparnasse follows as they lead the way through the bustling streets. Jehan’s corner of Montmartre is exactly as Montparnasse had pictured it, an eclectic mix of elegant antiquated architecture butting up against the more downmarket graffiti marked modern developments. They pass a pharmacy and a florist, Jehan calling a friendly greeting to the proprietor sweeping stray petals from the front step, and duck down a small side street.

“Guess which one is mine,” Jehan nods up towards the front of building with a sheepish smile.

Many of the balconies have plants and window boxes decorating them but only two are so overflowing with greenery that there are vines clinging to the stone around the windows. Garlands of dark leaves curl around the ironwork, bright flowers in shades of pink, orange and purple tumble out of pots alongside thick sheaves of herbs. Montparnasse thinks he can even see a small fig tree tucked away in the corner of one of them.

“I offered Feuilly the bigger bedroom but he said he’d forget to water the plants and they’d all die. It was the only argument he knew I couldn’t win,” Jehan says with a sigh, unlocking the front door. “His room looks over the courtyard, but there’s no balcony, so no outdoor plants.”

“What about indoor plants?” Montparnasse asks as Jehan steps through the door into the hall.

“Cacti and succulents only,” Jehan navigates around a bicycle leaning against the wall. “A compromise.”

“The key to successful cohabitation,” Montparnasse agrees, wondering briefly how Azelma and Gavroche enjoyed their evening with Fauchelevent and Javert.  
  
Jehan pauses by the stairs. “Are you coming up?”  
  
Montparnasse hesitates on the threshold. Jehan fell asleep standing up not long ago, they’re dead on their feet. He should go home and let them get some rest. But they reach for him unconsciously, taking his hand, and he can’t bring himself to walk away.

“After you,” he nods and Jehan smiles.

“You might regret that. The elevator is broken and I’m on the fifth floor.”

“Of course it is.”

“I’ve petitioned to get it fixed,” Jehan explains as they climb the stairs together. “There are more than a few older residents in this building and it’s an accessibility issue. Not to mention Joly can’t visit me here while it’s out of order and I don’t like that. But they just keep telling me it takes time to get someone out to do it. Really it’s a miracle there’s one at all, considering how old this building is.”

Jehan is almost babbling, all trace of tiredness vanished. They fumble their keys out of their bag, almost dropping them when, finally, they reach the fifth floor.

Montparnasse isn’t sure what he expected the inside of Jehan’s apartment to look like. Silk wallpaper and crystal chandeliers perhaps, or bright paint and plastic beaded curtains. Nothing would have surprised him. But when the heavy front door opens onto a high ceiling-ed hallway the walls are white and clean with what looks like original crown mouldings and not a lick of garish paint in sight. 

“Come in,” Jehan says, kicking off their shoes into a pile of similar-looking ones sitting under a small side table, onto which they deposit their bag.

Montparnasse takes his shoes off too, rubbing an exploratory toe across the Turkish rug sitting slightly crooked on the scuffed parquet floor.

“That’s Feuilly’s room,” Jehan waves a hand at the closed door on their right. “Bathroom and kitchen,” the two doors sitting ajar on the left.

“Where’s your room?” Montparnasse asks, sneaking a look around the bathroom door and catching a glimpse of a sink cluttered with cosmetic products and a huge claw-foot bathtub that monopolises nearly all of the floor space.

“Through there,” Jehan says, disappearing into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

The hallway leads into a front-facing room that boasts large double windows which open onto one of the balconies visible from the street. There’s a slightly battered mauve-velvet antique chaise in front of the window across from a clashing teal love seat strewn with cushions. More rugs litter the floor and a forest of palms in glazed pots stand as sentries between huge bookshelves that cover most of the walls, full to bursting with a riot of colourful leather-bound tomes and paperbacks as well as framed photographs of Jehan’s friends. The rest of the wall space is taken up with several large canvases Montparnasse recognises as Grantaire’s work and aselection of beautiful hand-painted paper fans he thinks must be Feuilly’s. One final closed door sits beside the chipped marble fireplace which is cluttered with candles and vases of dried flowers and feathers, their reflections slightly warped and blurry in the age-spotted mirror hanging above it.

Montparnasse wanders over to the window to inspect the plants. The fig is nowhere to be seen, presumably it lives on Jehan’s bedroom balcony.

“Do you want something to eat?” Jehan calls from the other room. “Or drink? Are you thirsty? I might make tea.”

“Maybe chamomile,” Montparnasse quips as he wanders through to the small kitchen. Jehan is standing at the sink with their sleeves pushed up to their elbows, hastily scrubbing at a bowl full of dishes. The rest of the kitchen is clean and tidy, there are more plants on the windowsill and a stack of textbooks on the small table underneath it.

“I would’ve cleaned up earlier if I knew you were coming over.” Jehan pushes their glasses up their nose with their wrist, their hand trailing bubbles. “I’ve been busy with revision and Feuilly hasn’t been home much, everything’s kind of a mess.”

They sound so apologetic, as though Montparnasse is going to be genuinely offended by a few dirty plates. It’s incredibly endearing. No one’s ever cared enough to try and impress him like this before.

“You’ve been to my place,” he says, leaning up against the doorframe with a smile. “This is practically a palace in comparison.”  
  
Jehan’s cheeks colour and they lean against the sink, mirroring him. “I’m nervous.”  
  
“I can see that,” Montparnasse says gently.

“You’re in my home,” Jehan says. “Do you know how often I’ve thought about-” they cut themself off. “Sorry.”

Montparnasse crosses the kitchen to stand in front of them, plucking a dish towel from where it’s hanging on the front of the oven door and carefully taking hold of Jehan’s wrists.

“I love your hands,” he says as he wipes the suds away. “Have I ever told you that?”

“No,” Jehan says breathlessly. 

Montparnasse sets the towel aside and ghosts his lips across the backs of their knuckles, the tips of their fingers. He turns them over and kisses their palms, following life and love lines up to the faint traceries of veins that run beneath the thin skin of their wrists.

Jehan’s lips are parted, their eyes are bright and shining and as he watches they take a light, shuddering breath and ask:

“Do you want to see my bedroom?”

It’s dark in Jehan’s room, the shutters are half-closed as though they left in a hurry that morning. There’s no overhead light, just an elaborate ceiling rose and an empty fixture. Jehan leans down and flicks a switch and the room sparkles to life, fairy lights looping around the walls and hanging in strings above the untidy desk, wrapped around the mirror that Montparnasse has seen once before in a photograph. There’s another bookshelf beside the big double bed, which is half shielded from the rest of the room by a faded folding screen. An armchair sits on one side of the window, more books piled on the seat, and a tiny shrine on the other bearing tea lights and saint cards and photographs that Montparnasse can’t quite make out.

The door closes with a click and when he turns Jehan is watching him.

“I did miss you,” they say, tugging their sleeves down absent-mindedly. “It wasn’t even that long, but I couldn't stop-”

Montparnasse crosses the room towards them and takes two long strides into their space, backing them against the door.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Jehan murmurs, glancing at his mouth, and he tilts their head up and kisses them.

Jehan melts against him, opening to him easily, willingly, their arms sliding up around his neck. He kisses them until they have to part for breath and then kisses them again. Jehan clings to his shoulders, pulls him in close and rocks against him until Montparnasse has no choice but to pin them against the door with a hand on their hip and a knee between their thighs. 

Jehan moans addictive little sounds into his mouth and this is normally the point where they’d stop but he truly, desperately doesn’t want to. It’s not only up to him though, so he pulls away the next time they pause to breathe and Jehan makes a frustrated noise.

“Don’t, don’t stop, don’t-” they step into him and push, walking him backwards until the foot of the bed knocks against the backs of his calves and he sits down hard, off balance.

“I want you,” Jehan says, their hands resting on Montparnasse’s shoulders and coming up to cup his face. “I want this. Tell me you want this?”

There’s the faintest hint of uncertainty in their voice that sounds like: _tell me you want me._

Montparnasse leans up and captures their mouth in a fleeting kiss. “I want everything with you.”

He sits back, tugging Jehan between his spread knees with his hands on their hips. Jehan shrugs artlessly out of their cardigan, letting it drop to the floor, and pulls Montparnasse’s stolen t-shirt over their head. It gets caught on the arm of their glasses and they grumble as they untangle the fabric.

“Wait,” Montparnasse says when they go to take their glasses off, “keep them on.”  
  
“Really?” Jehan asks, amused.  
  
“Mm,” he grins wolfishly up at them. “I like them. I haven’t forgotten about that school uniform, either,” he presses a kiss to the bare curve of their hip.

Jehan laughs, stomach twitching under his chin where it’s resting against the waistband of their jeans. “I didn’t think your kinks would be so ordinary.”  
  
“It’s not a kink, not really. It’s just… you.”

Jehan slides their fingers into his hair, pulling lightly. “I had planned to be wearing something nicer when this happened.”

“Personally I’m a fan of the half-undressed look,” Montparnasse speaks the words against their skin. “But I can wait if you want to change.”

Jehan’s smile is fond. “I think you actually mean that.”  
  
“Anything you want,” he swears, and Jehan ducks down and kisses him.  
  
“Maybe next time.”

Jehan nudges him back until he’s sitting properly on the bed and straddles his thighs. Montparnasse’s hands settle on their waist above their jeans, fingers spanning the small of their back, and he knew that this was what Jehan meant when they invited him into their bedroom but it still doesn’t quite feel real now that it’s happening.

“I was starting to get anxious,” Jehan admits, their new-found confidence dampened slightly as they loop their arms around his shoulders. “There've been a few times I thought we might end up here and it didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t want to rush.” Montparnasse turns his head slightly to brush his lips over the faint freckles on Jehan’s shoulders. “I’ve never had the chance to take things slow with anyone before,” he admits, the words coming easier with his face turned away.

There’s a tiny part of him that wonders cruelly how long Jehan will stick around once they’ve finally slept together. It’s irrational, he’s ninety percent sure of that, but he can’t deny that he’s been prolonging the wait for his own reasons.

Montparnasse has never really known how to make someone want to keep him around if he’s not fucking them. Éponine and the kids and Patron-Minette are the only exceptions, but he supposes that’s what having a real family means. People who stay, even when you’re not doing things for them.

He doesn’t let himself think about the unanswered texts on his phone or the rent that’s due at the end of the month.

Jehan must see something in his face though, or maybe the tension in his shoulders that has slowly been easing the longer he spends with them creeps back in because they pause.

“Are you sure you’re ok? We don’t have to do anything, we can just cuddle.” Jehan smiles and they are heart-stoppingly gorgeous. “I like cuddling.”  
  
No one’s ever asked him that before, they always just assume- but then it’s never been like this before. Even with Grantaire, Montparnasse couldn’t help but be aware of the imbalance between them, the knowledge that R could walk away at any time and not look back.

He feels _safe_ with Jehan. It’s novel. He likes it.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he kisses them, catching their bottom lip between his teeth carefully in a teasing bite. “We can cuddle later.”  
  
“Mm, later is also good.”

Jehan palms his erection through his jeans and it’s almost painful, Montparnasse shifts under them, hands coming down to grip the underside of their thighs.

“Jehan,” he grits out, “can we-”

“Yeah,” Jehan mumbles into his mouth. “Just let me- oh _shit_.” They sit back with a jolt, nearly sliding off of his lap.

Montparnasse catches them with one hand on their back, blinking in alarm. “What?”

“ _Condoms_ ,” they look flatteringly dismayed. “Ah, _putain_ , fucking _latex allergy_. I knew there was something- you don’t have any, do you?”

“I- no. I don’t, sorry. I wasn’t planning on this happening tonight,” Montparnasse says and they slump dramatically forward against his chest, resting their forehead on his shoulder and letting out a dejected sigh.  


“Well,” they press a kiss to his collarbone and nip at the skin there. “I suppose there are still some things we can do.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Jehan sits back and they’re blushing again, to Montparnasse’s delight. “I, um. I got tested with Joly last month. They go really regularly, even though they’re usually only with Bossuet. I’m clean.”  
  
“I haven’t been with anyone since my last all clear,” Montparnasse says slowly. “But if you’d rather wait to be sure, we could go together?”  
  
“That’s ok,” Jehan says easily. “I trust you.”  
  
The words hit Montparnasse like a physical blow and he tightens his grip on Jehan’s hips involuntarily. They trust him. Just like that. Something burns behind his eyes and he pulls Jehan into a furious kiss because he can’t be sure what his face is doing right now but it’s probably nothing flattering.

When they pull away Jehan leans back again and reaches up to unpick the mess of their hair from its tangled knot. They’re a perfect arc of smooth, naked skin that Montparnasse can’t resist touching, trailing his mouth down their throat over their chest until they shiver and laugh.   
  
Jehan lets their hair down, pulling the tie out with a wince, and it tumbles in kinked waves over their shoulders. They run their hands through it, tugging at the knots that have formed throughout the day, and Montparnasse gives up his hold on their waist to help, although he mostly ends up winding long strands of it around his fingers.  
  
“I’m taking my glasses off,” Jehan says, shaking their hair out of their eyes and doing just that, throwing them in the direction of their pile of abandoned clothes. “I’m flattered you like them, and we can revisit that, but they’re very smeary and they’ll get in the way.”  
  
“Get in the way of what?” Montparnasse asks, and Jehan slides out of his lap like something from a dream.

“Is this ok?” they ask, settling between his legs and running their hands up the inside of his thighs.

“What?” he asks, half stunned by this development. “Yes, whatever you want.”

Montparnasse is completely willing to let Jehan take the lead on this.

“I thought about this,” Jehan says, eyes fixed on their hands where they’re unbuttoning Montparnasse’s jeans. “From the first time I saw you. I wanted to kiss you, so badly, but I wanted this too.”  
  
“Shit,” Montparnasse gasps. “Jehan-”  
  
“And when we were on our first date,” Jehan is flushed bright pink across their cheekbones and their breath is warm when they lean in close. “The way you looked at me, I wanted you so much. Thought about pulling you into the dressing room with me, getting down on my knees for you.”  
  
God, what a picture that is. Jehan in that dress, dim light glinting off their hair as they looked shyly up at him just like they are now.  
  
Montparnasse swears again as Jehan tugs his jeans down and presses their lips over the damp spot on his boxers, their mouth hot and perfect but not quite enough through the fabric. Nimble fingers slip underneath the waistband of his underwear and Montparnasse slides his own into Jehan’s hair, careful not to pull even at the first touch of wet lips on heated skin. He’s been half hard since Jehan sat themself in his lap back at the Musain. Having Jehan here, touching him, their hands, their _mouth_ \- it’s so good, no amount of fantasising could have prepared him for the reality of Jehan’s mouth on him.

They take him in slowly, scratching their nails lightly over the ticklish skin on the inside of his hipbones, a teasing counterpoint to the slick heat of their tongue as they lap at the head of his cock, one hand holding him tightly like they can tell how close he already is. Montparnasse knows he’s talking, senseless words spilling out as Jehan takes him deeper, fingers twisting in the sheets at his side as he tries to concentrate on not thrusting too roughly, hips twitching regardless when Jehan slips a hand up under his shirt to rest on the tight muscles of his stomach. He can feel their throat working as they swallow and he could come just like this, but Jehan feels too far away. He wants to touch them, wants the warm expanse of their skin against him, wants to feel them shake apart beneath his hands.   
  
“Jehan,” he says and has to swallow hard when they look up at him, pupils huge and dark. He touches his thumb to the corner of Jehan’s lips where they’re stretched around his cock and Jehan’s eyes flicker shut again, humming around him as they pull off messily.  
  
“Fuck,” Montparnasse breathes, “come up here, please.”

Jehan rises to their feet like a vision. They wriggle out of their jeans and underwear, leaning a hand on Montparnasse’s knee for a brief moment to strip off their socks, and then they’re in his lap again, gloriously nude.

“Tell me what else you think about,” Montparnasse says, smoothing both hands up their back as they settle against him.

“Lots of things.” Jehan presses kisses to Montparnasse’s cheekbones, their fingers tracing the curve of his jaw and slipping back into his hair. “The way you touch me, like I’m something precious.”

“You are.” _Immeasurably so_ , Montparnasse thinks. The thrill he gets from laying hands on them is at once similar and worlds apart to how he feels when he’s taking something he shouldn’t.

“I think a lot about how sweet you are,” Jehan guides Montparnasse’s head down and he sets his teeth against their neck, rubbing his thumb over one stiff nipple as they press together, hot skin against skin. “So charming and attentive, and you say the loveliest things.  
  
“And then you’ll look at me,” Jehan rolls their hips maddeningly slow and he closes his lips around their other nipple and laves it with his tongue. “ _Wickedly_ , your eyes all dark, and I just want you to hold me down and fuck me til I scream.”

“Oh, Montparnasse says with a grin. “We can definitely do that.” 

Jehan rests a deliberate hand against the hollow of his throat and Montparnasse goes perfectly still beneath them, blood rushing in his ears when they hold it there, the faint pressure of their fingers pinning him in place.

“Hm,” they smile a pleased little smile. “That’s interesting.”

Montparnasse licks his suddenly dry lips, arousal tugging low in his stomach when Jehan follows the motion with glittering eyes. Their grip tightens just a fraction and Montparnasse’s hips twitch in response, the touch of their hands a direct line to his cock. Jehan’s smile widens and then they let go, just as Montparnasse was getting ready to beg for- anything really.

“You said you like my hands,” Jehan says, sliding them up his neck and curling their fingers in his hair. “And you like it when I do this-” they pull slowly but forcefully, tilting his head back and exposing his throat, “don’t you?”

There’s a genuine question in their eyes when they look at him that’s replaced with satisfaction when he nods, tugging against their grip and sending sparks down his spine.  
  
“Yes.” He barely recognises the sound of his own noise, roughened as it is by lust and adoration.

Jehan always has been able to render him utterly defenceless. It gives him a dark kind of thrill to willingly offer himself up to them like this.  
  
“What else do you like, I wonder.” Jehan wraps their free hand around his cock, working him slowly until he’s fucking up into their grip as they keep the pace just the wrong side of too slow.

Montparnasse is burning. Jehan is naked and he’s still wearing his clothes but he feels stripped bare beneath them, totally vulnerable in a way he should hate but it’s setting him alight from the inside. Jehan’s voice, the taste of them, the _sight_ of them, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen-

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Jehan says, their voice low and doting. “So pretty.” 

Montparnasse curses aloud when they rub their fingers over the head of his cock, teasing at where he’s most sensitive. Then they let go and he _whines._

“Jehan, please-”  
  
“Sh,” they slide two wet fingers past his lips and Montparnasse moans when he tastes himself on them. “My pretty boy.”  
  
Jehan drags their fingers down over Montparnasse’s bottom lip and leans in to kiss him, licking into his mouth.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want your hands, want you to touch me, please _-”_

Jehan hums, amused. “Since you asked so nicely.” They spit in their palm and it’s slightly obscene how he immediately wishes they’d do it again, preferably in his mouth. 

It’s wet and hot and agonisingly good when they take him in hand again, pressing biting kisses against his throat as they touch him. Montparnasse’s hands clutch at Jehan’s hips, bucking up against them, suspended between their fingers working him closer to the edge and the tight grip they have on his hair, their teeth scraping over his pulse.

“Sometimes-” Jehan says with their lips brushing the shell of his ear and the twist of their wrist rendering him a desperate, panting mess against their neck. “Sometimes I think you want to be good for me.”  
  
Montparnasse comes. He shudders apart under Jehan’s touch and they stroke him through it, kissing him tenderly until he's oversensitive and flinching. He likes that occasionally, that edge of over-stimulated _too-much_ , but he can feel Jehan’s still hard against his stomach and he needs, more than anything, to watch them come.

When he goes to reach for them, releasing his tight grip on Jehan’s waist and flexing motion back into his clumsy fingers, Jehan intercepts- taking a handful of Montparnasse’s shirt and pushing him down until he’s on his back on the bed.

“Don’t move.”

They settle over his hips, one hand braced on his chest, and if Montparnasse hadn’t just come he’d be dying at the picture they make now, touching themself with their lips bitten red and their cheeks flushed.  
  
“Jehan,” he breathes. “Fuck, Jehan, you’re so beautiful, come on, come for me-”  
  
Their climax hits them with Montparnasse’s name on their lips and they spill hot and wet over his stomach.

Jehan collapses against him almost immediately with a punched-out sound of pleasure.   
  
“Holy shit,” they slur, hair in their mouth and laughing when Montparnasse laughs.  
  
“Yeah.” He pulls them into his arms, measuring the trembling race of their pulse with his lips.

Montparnasse is sex-stupid, blissed out on endorphins, so he doesn’t think anything of it when Jehan starts tugging on his t-shirt.  
  
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” they mumble. “How are you still wearing all your clothes?”

He realises what’s about to happen mere seconds before it does. Jehan’s fingers brush over the edge of the mostly-healed wound on his ribs and they pause, brow furrowing.  
  
“What-” they push at his shirt and Montparnasse doesn’t stop them, lets them uncover the ugly sight beneath it. “Parnasse?” they pull their hands away, sitting back on their knees.  
  
Montparnasse sits up as well and pulls the shirt off over his head, letting them look their fill at the newly forming scar, the unsightly bruises still marring his shoulder.

Jehan looks wrecked and his heart sinks, guilt and misery setting his stomach churning, washing away the remaining warmth of the afterglow.

“This is why you stayed away,” Jehan speaks in a near whisper, fists clenched on their thighs.  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words don’t feel remotely enough. “I didn’t want to-” _lie to you_ “worry you.”

“Does it hurt?” Jehan reaches out hesitantly, resting slightly shaking fingers just shy of the deeper bruising. 

“No.” That’s not entirely true but the healing twinges are nothing compared to the injured expression on Jehan’s face. “Not really.”  
  
“Are we going to talk about it?” Jehan asks, staring at the bruises so fixedly he thinks they can’t bear to look him in the eye.

“Do you want to?”  
  
“I want-” they hesitate and when they finally meet his gaze their eyes are troubled. “I want you to hold me.”

“What?”

“Just, hold on to me,” Jehan pleads. They fold back down over him like their strings have been cut, pressing their face into the curve of his neck, one hand coming too rest feather-light on his shoulder.

He rolls them over carefully until they’re on their back, spread out across their dark sheets just like he’d once imagined. He hadn’t thought it would be like this though, with the weight of his secrets heavy and unspoken between them.   
  
Jehan is unselfconsciously naked and Montparnasse moves to the edge of the bed to strip out of the rest of his own clothes, their eyes on him the whole time. They reach for him when he’s done, the same way they did on the stairs earlier, and he goes to them again, like he always will.

Montparnasse pulls the covers over them and they cling somewhat desperately to one another, counting the minutes until he feels Jehan’s racing heart slow and their shaky breathing even out. 

~

“You haven’t asked me what happened.”

Beyond the shutters the city is loud with the buzz of an almost-weekend but Jehan’s voice is hushed when they reply, as though not to break the still that’s fallen over them.  


“I know there are things you don’t talk about. Or can’t, maybe.”

“You never asked before either.”

Jehan tucks their face against his neck watching as they trace the edge of his stitches. “I think I was scared.”

“Of me?” Montparnasse asks, feeling sick at the thought.

“Of what you might tell me. That you’d lie. Or that you wouldn’t. That I wouldn’t care much either way.” Jehan smiles. “I’m not really a good person either, you know.”

“You are,” Montparnasse strokes their tangled hair back from their cheek. “You’re too good for me.”  
  
“Don’t say that,” Jehan whispers, pressing against him as though they want to sink under his skin, like maybe they can force the darkness out of him if they just get close enough.

“It’s not the kind of thing you make casual conversation about.”

“Ok.”

“I will if you want.”

Jehan shakes their head. “You don’t have to. Just, tell me something else. A story.”

“A story?”

“I want to hear your voice.”

“Oh,” Montparnasse’s heart thuds against his breastbone. “Alright. What kind of story?”  
  
Jehan presses a kiss to his chest, above his heart. “A true one.”

A true story. What stories does he have that won’t ruin this?

“Do you remember, the night we met,” he begins and feels Jehan smile against his shoulder. “You asked me what the worst thing I’d ever done was.”

The smile fades. “I did.”

Montparnasse is quiet, trying to find the words.

“How much did Feuilly tell you about how we know each other?”

“I know you met when you were young,” Jehan says. “He moved near you and Éponine.”

“Yeah. We’d been there a long time when he arrived.”

“He said,” Jehan pauses. “He said you didn’t have the best home life.”

Montparnasse hums, darkly amused. “That’s a generous way of putting it.”

“Your foster father.”  
  
It’s not a question, and Montparnasse can’t decide how he feels about them remembering that.

“He was an asshole,” he says shortly. “It got worse as I got older and bigger and started fighting back.”

Jehan is quiet but their grip on him is tight.

“It got to the point where I barely lived there, I spent all my time at Éponine’s or out.” Montparnasse frowns and wishes vehemently for a cigarette. “I had this one neighbour who looked out for me. She was- God. She was younger than I am now, but she took me in, kind of. Fed me and let me stay when it was too cold to sleep outside.”

Like a stray cat, Babet had said once, watching with what he’d thought was poorly disguised affection as he bolted down a plate of food.

Jehan makes an encouraging noise and Montparnasse realises he’s fallen silent again.

“She looked out for me,” he says again. “She didn’t have to. No one really did that, then. Not adults, anyway. Éponine’s father used to say: ‘ _We look after our own around here_.’ Of course, he meant ‘our own interests’, it didn’t take me long to work that out. But she was different.”

“She sounds nice,” Jehan offers and Montparnasse smiles.

“Don’t tell her I said this, but Éponine reminds me of her sometimes. That way she gets when she’s riled up. Over-protective.”

Montparnasse weighs the options of continuing down this path or changing the subject, but he’s started now and he feels like he owes Jehan this. The truth.

“It was raining,” he says, and he shivers with remembered cold, how the soaked fabric of his thin t-shirt had clung to him, hair dripping icy rivulets down his spine. “I let myself in.”

Babet had never given him a key, but neither had she fixed the door which could be easily jimmied open if you knew how. Montparnasse knew how.

“She was always alone,” he tells Jehan, but his mind is drifting back to that tiny apartment. The smell of citrus and spice, the rustle of cheap shag carpet underfoot. “I knew she was married, but he wasn’t ever there, that I could see. He worked away a lot, at least that’s what she told me. I thought he had another family or something. He came around once in a while, but I’d never met him and I think I just forgot he existed.”

The flat had been warm, it was always warm. Babet complained about the French climate often in the colder months. She kept the space heater on full. Montparnasse could feel the heat sink into his wet clothes.  
  
“It never occurred to me that he might be there when I went over that night.”  
  
He’d been shivering in front of the radiator, holding his fingers too close to the heat until they throbbed. By the time he heard footsteps behind him, it was already too late.  
  
_“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”_  
  
Montparnasse had flinched away from the angry voice, but harsh hands caught him by the shoulders before he could flee.  
  
_“A little thief, is it?”_  
  
He’d already failed the most important step of getting away safely - don’t let anyone get a hold of you - but Montparnasse fought all the same. He kicked and lashed out with clenched fists, wriggled and cursed and spat like a rabid thing. Sometimes, when it was an older kid or his foster father who had grabbed him, that worked.  
  
Not this time.  
  
“He took me by surprise.”  
  
When his back hit the wall it knocked all the breath from his lungs.  
  
“He asked who I was, which I suppose was only fair since I’d broken into his wife’s apartment. But I wasn’t going to tell him.”  
  
The first hit was never the worst. That right was reserved for the third or fourth, once the shock had worn off but before adrenaline could numb everything, or the ninth or tenth or eleventh- anything past the point of begging. Babet’s husband had a cruel right hook, he’d seen evidence of that before. He hadn’t expected to find out for himself.  
  
“I didn’t trust many people.”  
  
Montparnasse got a lucky kick in and he scrambled for freedom, ducking under reaching arms and making for the balcony door. He wasn’t expecting to be pushed _forwards_. The edge of the coffee table caught his ribcage hard and the glass top shattered as he hit it full on with his elbow, shards slicing into his face and arms.

He wasn’t too proud to crawl, but before he could right himself the man grabbed him by one ankle and yanked, pulling his hands out from under him. The carpet scraped skin off his elbows and broken glass caught in the palms of his hands and the soft skin of his stomach as he was dragged back from his goal.  
  
“I trusted her, though.”  
  
There was a moment when Babet appeared in the doorway where he thought she’d walk away. No one had ever helped him before, not at the cost of their own safety. He’d have understood, in a way. She didn’t owe him anything.  
  
“She screamed at him, got up in his face about hitting a child, which- I was eleven. Hardly a child.”  
  
The shock when he backhanded her was worse than being struck himself.  
  
“I knew he treated her badly, but I hadn’t thought it was that serious.”  
  
Montparnasse was afraid. Babet’s husband dragged her into the kitchen, holding her by the throat as he yanked drawers open, snarling that he’d teach her a lesson. Montparnasse knew what that meant, knew what would happen next. Knew he should take the chance to run while the man was distracted.

“It was stupid to think that. Even more so to think that I could do anything about it. I’d already made things worse just by being there.”

But Babet had always been kind to him. He didn’t want to watch her get hurt for him. So he’d moved, stumbled up from the floor where he’d fallen and planted himself in front of her.

“I had to try.”

Of course he’d gotten hit again. He’d curled into a ball and wrapped his arms over his head when the kicks started raining down, but just as quickly as they’d begun they stopped.   
  
“I do think he would’ve killed me if she hadn’t stopped him.”

Montparnasse will never forget the expression on Babet’s face when he’d sat up and looked at her, the spray of blood across the bridge of her nose, how her hand on the knife hadn’t trembled even a little. 

“I helped her carry him outside. You’d think people would notice something like that, but no one did.Or if they did, they chose to ignore it. We put him in his car, in the driver’s seat. There was a bottle of vodka in the trunk and she poured it over him.”  
  
Babet had reached into her husband’s liquor-soaked jacket pocket and pulled out a dented silver zippo lighter. It took her three tries to strike the flint and then she’d just stood there, holding it.  
  
“I set the fire.”  
  
She’d looked at him then, as he took the lighter from her and Montparnasse had wondered if she’d kill him too, so he couldn’t tell. He wouldn’t have, he was already too loyal. It hadn’t taken much. But killing him would have been the smart thing to do.  
  
Instead, she’d told him to leave and he had, he’d slunk off to Éponine’s apartment and let her clean him up and then he’d gone home to wait for whatever would come next: his foster father’s wrath, the police, Babet and her knife.

Nothing happened. 

“She went away, after that. Disappeared the same night.”  
  
Cosette left. Feuilly came and went and came back again. Montparnasse stopped going home entirely, started staying out nights with Glorieux and his friends, sleeping only when there was someone to watch his back.

“I was so afraid that we’d be found out, that they’d catch us. But no one wants to investigate too thoroughly into the death of a criminal lowlife.”  
  
And that’s something Montparnasse has thought about at length. The only thing that has stopped him from cutting contact with Éponine and the kids at times, when he worried what his actions might bring down on their heads.  
  
“It was ruled an accident and things went on like nothing had changed. The fact that she’d vanished didn’t seem to bother anyone besides me.”  
  
He’d never thought he’d see Babet again.  
  
“It was my fault,” he says, frowning at the ceiling. “If I hadn’t been there, it never would have happened.”  
  
He doesn’t let himself think about how different things might be now.

“Is that it?” Jehan asks eventually, lying perfectly still beside him, and Montparnasse has to pull away, sits up to look at them because that wasn't the reaction they were expecting.

“Is that the worst thing you’ve done?”  


“Oh.” He cant lie. Not now. “No,” he says. _I think its one of the best,_ he doesn’t add.

Jehan doesn’t say anything and he feels suddenly, violently sick.

“Are you- do you want me to leave?”

“No.” They catch hold of his arm instinctively and let go just as fast. “No, please don’t go.”

Montparnasse lays back down again, not making any move to touch them. After a moment or two, Jehan curls up against him again.

“I’m sorry,” they say, and he doesn't know if they mean for asking or for what happened, but he can’t think of a response, just lifts a cautious hand to wrap around their shoulders.  


They’re quiet for a long time after that. Montparnasse isn’t sure what time it is when he drifts off to sleep, but when he does his dreams are full of fire and blood.

When he wakes, early enough that its still dark outside, the fairy lights have been turned off and the sheets beside him are empty and cold.

Jehan is gone.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter nearly killed me, apologies to everyone I cried to about it.  
> Bread and Roses is a real restaurant, café and deli that I have never been into because it is, ironically, prohibitively expensive considering its name :’)
> 
> Look at this absolutely beautiful art from this chapter!!!  
> http://tissueboxesforseals.tumblr.com/post/172868562435/i-shouldnt-be-drawing-but-did-yall-see-the-new
> 
> Translations:  
> Un gamin d'Paris, c'est tout un poème - A gamin from Paris is quite a poem (turn of phrase meaning they're remarkable) so this is a disgustingly meta thing to include but I couldn't resist, please ignore the fact that in order for the song that Jehan is singing a line from to exist, Gavroche the character as written by Victor Hugo would have to exist in this universe and they'd be aware of that... and just roll with the joke.  
> Putain - you should all know what this means by now.
> 
> The sex scene contains mild kink and D/s dynamics. If you want to skip the smut stop reading after the line:  
> “Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Jehan murmurs, glancing at his mouth, and he tilts their head up and kisses them.
> 
> And start again at:  
> He realises what’s about to happen mere seconds before it does.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] One Thousand Nights by mardisoir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544048) by [TheLordOfLaMancha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha)




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